









































































































































Class D3 I \ \ 

rt 

Boole . .La' A 


Gopglit N°. 


rOPXRIGHT DEPOSER 















IN MANY LANDS 


THE 

ETERNAL WANDERER 


I gather only autumn leaves, that 
slowly tumble down, 

I gather only autumn leaves, all 
withered, dull and brown; 

I wonder where those restless birds 
are winging over sea! . . . 

I gather leaves the cold has slain; 

What though the summer bloom 
again— 

It cannot bloom for me. 

I see a shining little ship that sails 
to countries far: 

I see a ship that homeward sails to 
where my People are. . . . 

How my heart longs to follow 
you, strange birds, across the 
sea! . . . 

No brown leaves there, but glowing 
flowers: 

And, in the long and golden hours. 
They’ll bloom again for me. 



























In Many Lands 

STORIES OF HOW THE SCATTERED 
JEWS KEPT THEIR FESTIVALS 


By 

ELMA EHRLICH LEVINGER 

h 

AUTHOR OF 

‘‘JEWISH HOLYDAY STORIES,” “THE NEW LAND,” ETC. 



\ > 

> ♦ * 
i • 


NEW YORK 

BLOCH PUBLISHING COMPANY 

"THE JEWISH BOOK CONCERN” 

1923 















Copyright, 1923, by 

BLOCH PUBLISHING COMPANY 



This Volume is Affectionately Dedicated 

to 

HAROLD W. LEVINGER 
at the Beginning of a New Year 



rtINTID IN THE UNITED STATES O T AMERICA 


JUN 22 '23 

©C1A7UOOO 



PREFACE 




There is a legend that when the Jews were driven 
forth into exile, they carried with them stones of their 
broken and pillaged Temple at Jerusalem. Those who 
bore the sacred relics bowed bleeding backs beneath 
their weight and often fell exhausted in the dust of the 
road that led to Babylon. And in time these stones, 
like so many rare and precious things, vanished and 
were never seen again. 

But in his exile the Jew treasured other stones of 
great price, gems which he valued far more than the 
jewels and gold his enemies snatched from his coffers. 
They were the festival days of his people. 

Israel was scattered over the face of the whole earth; 
his weary, bleeding feet left a crimson trail from Pales¬ 
tine, where the Romans had ploughed the site of the 
Temple, to Spain with its palms and golden sunshine, 
and Russia, terrible with darkness and cold. And every¬ 
where the Jew forgot the griefs of exile and the hatred 
of his neighbors as he rejoiced in the festivals of his 
broken nation. Israel in the Middle Ages was a beggar, 
but beneath his ragged cloak he bore a casket of precious 
jewels, which on appointed days he drew forth that he 
might look upon them and rejoice in their beauty and 
remember the days when he had ruled as a king. 

In these stories of Old World Jewry, I have shown 
you the jewels in many settings—from the days of the 

5 


6 


PREFACE 


Roman tyrants down to our own time when even harsher 
foes sought to destroy our people. But the Jew still 
remains unbroken and he still carries from land to land 
the chain of precious gems which bind him to his past. 


Wilmington, Del. 
January, 1923 . 


Elma Ehrlich Levinger. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

ROSH HASHONAH —The Jewish New Year . 9 

THE SHOFAR CALL.12 

THE MAN WHO CAME LATE.13 

A Story of Rosh Hashonah in Spain. 

YOM KIPPUR —The Day of Atonement ... 22 

THE ATONEMENT OFFERING.24 

THE DAY OF RETURN.25 

A Story of Yom Kippur in Holland. 

SUCCOTH— The Jewish Thanksgiving ... 34 

SUCCOTH IN WARTIME.37 

TENT OF ISRAEL. 88 

A Story of Succoth in Russia. 

SIMCHATH TORAH —The Rejoicing over the 

Torah .45 

SIMCHATH TORAH.48 

THE FLAG OF MY PEOPLE.49 

A Story of Simchath Torah in Russia. 

CHANUKAH —The Feast of Lights .... 55 

JOSEPH’S CANDLE.58 

THE MENORAH OF REMEMBRANCE ... 69 

A Story of Chanukah in Bohemia. 

PURIM —The Feast of Lots .69 

UNMASKED .71 

THE PURIM PLAYERS.72 

A Story of Purim in Germany. 

7 















8 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


PASSOVER —The Feast of Freedom .... 79 

THE HILLS ABOUT JERUSALEM.81 

THE UNWELCOME GUEST.83 

A Story of Passover in Bohemia. 

THE SEPHIRA —Days of Remembrance ... 91 

A CITY GATE IN PALESTINE.92 

THE LONG NIGHT. 93 

A Story of Sephira Days in Bohemia. 

LAG BAOMER —The Scholars* Holiday . . . 103 

THE PROMISE OF SPRING.105 

THE DOVE AND THE EAGLE.106 

A Story of Lag Baomer in Palestine. 

SHABUOTH —The Festival of the First Fruits . 112 

THE NEW HARVEST.114 

A ROSE FOR BEAUTY ......... 115 

A Story of Shabuoth in France. 

TISHA B’AB —The Day on which our Temple Fell 124 

O LITTLE LAND.127 

THE VISION THAT PASSED.128 

A Story of Tisha B’Ab in Poland. 

SABBATH —The Jewish Rest Day . . . . 135 

SABBATH PEACE.. . 137 

THE RIVER OF DREAMS.138 

A Story of the Sabbath in Austria. 

The Author is grateful to the Hebrew Standard, Jewish 
Daily News, Jewish Child, Jewish Criterion, Young Israel and 
Young Judean for permission to reprint some of the stories 
and verses appearing in this volume. 













IN MANY LANDS 


ROSH HASHONAH 

THE JEWISH NEW YEAR 

Rosh Hashonah, which means the head (or the begin¬ 
ning) of the year, is the Jewish New Year. The Jew 
does not usher in his New Year with noise and thought¬ 
less festivities. For him it is not a time of feasting and 
merry-making; it is a day set aside for meditation and 
consecrated by the old ritual of the synagogue. 

For Rosh Hashonah is also the Day of Judgment, and 
on this holy day the Jew believes that God takes account¬ 
ing of his deeds, good and evil, for the past year. It is 
the Day of Remembrance, and the people of Israel try 
to recall how they have spent the last twelve months 
and ask themselves what judgment should be written 
against their names in the Book no man may see. We 
do not wish each other a happy New Year, but exchange 
the greeting, leshonah tovah tikosevu (May you be 
written for a good year), desiring that all Jews may 
have their names inscribed in the Book of Life. 

Rosh Hashonah is ushered in by the blowing of the 
Shofar, or trumpet, which in ancient times was sounded 
to call together all the valiant soldiers of Israel; at its 
sound they left their tents and assembled to prepare for 

9 



10 


IN MANY LANDS 


battle. Tradition says that the first Shofar was fash¬ 
ioned out of a ram’s horn, that very ram which God 
sent to lay upon the altar instead of Isaac, whom his 
father Abraham had already bound for the sacrifice. 
To this day it is the traditional ram’s horn that on Rosh 
Hashonah calls all Jews to gather in their synagogues 
to read again the story of Abraham’s obedience and to 
renew their vows of allegiance to the Jewish people and 
the Jewish religion. 

Of all the prayers uttered upon Rosh Hashonah none 
has been more hallowed through use and tradition than 
the Unesaneh Tokef, attributed to Rabbi Amnon of 
Mayence. Amnon, so runs the old story, although a 
despised Jew, still stood high in favor with his friend, 
the archbishop of Mayence. But one day his patron 
suddenly demanded that Amnon should turn Christian. 
The rabbi was so taken by surprise that instead of 
refusing to accept baptism, he begged for three days in 
which he might consider whether he should forsake the 
faith of his fathers. 

Safe at home he was overcome with remorse and 
shame that he had not defied the archbishop and abso¬ 
lutely refused to renounce Judaism. When the third 
day arrived on which he was to go to the palace, he did 
not leave his house; when the archbishop became im¬ 
patient and sent a messenger for him, he boldly refused 
to obey the summons. Then the archbishop sent armed 
men to the house of Rabbi Amnon and they took him 
by force to the palace. 

“My Lord,” Amnon answered when the archbishop 
demanded to know the reason of his disobedience, “I 
knew that if I refused to answer your summons, you 
would have me severely punished. And I desire pun¬ 
ishment, since I was too cowardly three days ago to 


ROSH HASHONAH 


11 


defy you and refuse to give up my religion. Since my 
tongue seemed to deny my faith, let it be torn from 
my mouth/’ 

“Nay,” said the archbishop, “but your feet that would 
not follow my messenger will be cut off and your hands 
also be hacked from your body.” 

The archbishop’s orders were carried out and Rabbi 
Amnon was carried back to the Jewish quarter to die, 
that other Jews might look upon his sufferings and be 
warned by his fate. Amnon begged his friends to carry 
him to the synagogue, where his brethren were ushering 
in the New Year with prayer and song. Lying upon 
his litter, he conquered his death agony and composed 
the hymn known to-day as the Unesaneh Tokef, a mag¬ 
nificent poem describing God’s Day of Judgment. 

From that day Jews who gather to hear the blowing 
of the Shofar recite the prayer of the rabbi of Mayence. 
In the dark days of Spain, when to profess Judaism 
meant death, hundreds of Marranos (secret Jews) must 
have found comfort and inspiration in his story as they 
met in their hidden synagogues to praise the God of 
their fathers. Perhaps it was the thought of this earlier 
martyr that urged “The Man Who Came Late” to 
hurry to his brethren as they met for their secret Rosh 
Hashonah rites over four hundred years ago. 



THE SHOFAR CALL 

Within the synagogue the light is dim; 

The air is hushed around; 

Even the silence seems to pray until 
We hear the Shofar sound. 

0 Shofar, thrill us with thy battle strain, 
Till each young heart will echo Israel's pain, 
And, like a trumpet clear, 

Sound to the world the vow we pledge anew: 
Proudly to bear the sacred name of Jew 
Untarnished through the year! 


12 














THE MAN WHO CAME LATE 

A Story of Rosh Hashonah in Spain 


The handful of men, women and children who 
had gathered in the cellar of Don Pedro’s house 
for their Rosh Hashonah services, murmured their 
prayers in fear-hushed voices, although they knew 
there was little chance that their words would pene¬ 
trate through the thick stone walls into the ears of 
spies who lingered outside. For the Marranos had 
grown accustomed to fear even when there was very 
little likelihood of betrayal and punishment—and 
they were most afraid when they prayed in secret 
to the deserted God of their fathers. 

Those who gathered in the cellar of Don Pedro’s 
stately mansion were secret Jews; Jews who, fear¬ 
ing the tortures of the Inquisition and the death 
by fire meted out to so many faithful Israelites by 
their Spanish rulers, sought to save their lives and 
their fortunes by seeming to accept the Christian 
religion. They baptized their children and attended 
Mass; they spoke only Spanish and seemed to dis¬ 
card all the rites and customs of Judaism. It is easy 
to call them traitors and cowards, but it is well to 
remember that more than the fear of suffering and 
death determined their denial of Judaism. These 
Jews, who had grown to love the sunny land of 

13 


14 


IN MANY LANDS 


Spain as their own homes, knew that even if the 
Inquisition allowed them to escape with their lives 
they faced eternal banishment. And thus many of 
them declared that they were in truth Spaniards, not 
Jews, and promised to live like the Christians around 
them. 

But the Judaism that they had promised to for¬ 
swear still ruled their hearts. Jews who had long 
appeared Christians in every sense, could not entirely 
forget and forsake the customs of their fathers. It 
was forbidden to recite the old Jewish prayers, yet 
many a Marrano mother risked her life to teach her 
little child the “Shema”, although she knew only too 
well that one of her servants might spy upon her 
and deliver her to the Inquisition as a traitor. Al¬ 
though there was not a man or woman gathered in 
Don Pedro’s cellar to listen to the blowing of the 
Shofar who had not seen some of his brethren and 
his friends done to death for heresy, still the Jews 
dared to come together to keep the ancient Judgment 
Day of their people. And as they prayed they trem¬ 
bled with fear, lest their own lives and the lives of 
those they held dear should be made to pay for their 
daring. 

Don Alfonso, a very old man, still singularly like 
a Jewish patriarch in spite of the rich Spanish gar¬ 
ments he wore, conducted the services. The others 
followed him, the younger members of the secret 
congregation tripping now and then as their tongues 
recited the unfamiliar Hebrew they so seldom heard. 
But Don Alfonso had lived in the golden days of 
freedom, when Spain had proved herself another 


THE MAN WHO CAME LATE 


15 


Jerusalem for the exiled Jew; he had known Jewish 
poets who sang fearlessly in their own loved Hebrew 
tongue; he remembered the festivals when as a little 
child he had gone with his parents to worship the 
God of Israel before the sight of all men and had 
not dreamed of being afraid. When he remembered 
these things his eyes turned sadly toward the door 
of the cellar where a youth crouched with a dagger 
in his hand, ready to spring upon any informer who 
chanced upon them, and slay him before he escaped 
with his tale to the servants of the Inquisition; and 
so bitter was the contrast between his memory pic¬ 
tures and the cruel present, that Don Alfonso often 
wept aloud and could not go on for his weeping. 
And the others wept also, even the younger men 
and women who could not recall happier days, for 
they shared his sorrow and his shame over the hap¬ 
less lot of Israel. 

While these Marranos and their families prayed 
and wept in the vault-like cellar of the house of Don 
Pedro, a certain Spanish nobleman of much wealth 
and high degree walked leisurely up and down the 
courtyard of his palace talking to the Cardinal who 
had deigned to visit him that morning. The Cardi¬ 
nal was an old man with a face so hard and cold that 
his delicate features seemed to be carved out of 
ivory; the nobleman, Don Luis, had not yet reached 
middle age; his dark, glowing face was alive with 
feeling, his gestures quick with the animation that 
characterizes the Spaniard, and there was nothing 
in either his face or his bearing to betray that he 
belonged to the despised Jewish race. Yet, as he 


16 


IN MANY LANDS 


spoke, the Cardinal eyed him now and then with 
looks of cold suspicion. 

“I have heard sad rumors since my return from 
Rome,” he told Don Luis as they strolled together 
under the spreading palms. “We dared to hope that 
our Holy Inquisition has long stamped out these 
Jewish back-sliders; yet now I hear that certain 
noblemen, high in the favor of the Court and 
Church, still dare to observe the rites of their ac¬ 
cursed religion.” He looked at Don Luis sternly, 
almost accusingly. “Your father was burned by the 
Inquisition for his heresy,” he said, “and there may 
still be those as stubborn and stiff-necked as he, who, 
drawn into the bosom of Mother Church, still cling 
to their heretical faith. Because of your father’s 
standing in the old Jewish community, you may be 
in their counsels. Well,” impatiently, as the younger 
man did not answer, “have you heard aught of re¬ 
canting from any converted Jew?” 

Don Luis shook his head. “I am a faithful son 
of the Church,” he answered, smiling, “and had I 
heard such rumors I should have repeated them at 
once to the officers of the Inquisition. Surely, you 
do not doubt my zeal, father!” 

“I have no reason to, for you seem of sound mind, 
and only a madman would court his own destruc¬ 
tion,” answered the Cardinal with a grim smile. 
“You stand higher in the king’s favor than any man 
with his veins dishonored by Jewish blood; you are 
known as a loyal subject and a faithful son of the 
Church. No, you would not be such a madman as 


THE MAN WHO CAME LATE 17 

to risk your fortunes and your life by recanting for 
the sake of your father’s religion.” 

“You have spoken truly,” answered Don Luis 
smoothly. “I am indeed a loyal subject and a faith¬ 
ful son of the Church.” 

“And yet—” the Cardinal’s piercing eyes scanned 
the young man’s guileless face, “and yet—I have 
heard rumors against you.” He noticed that Don 
Luis did not wince or change color, but only looked 
back at him with his air of courteous attention. “It 
would not be hard to convince me that rumors con¬ 
cerning your love for Judaism were quite ground¬ 
less,” insinuated the Cardinal. 

“I am willing to do anything to prove myself as 
loyal and faithful, as I am sure you believe me to 
be,” was the answer. “What does the Church re¬ 
quire of me?” 

The Cardinal drew his host to one of the low seats 
beside a marble fountain. Perfumed water tinkled 
gently into a basin of many-colored stones; birds of 
bright plumage sang from flowering trees—a lovely 
scene, yet Don Luis saw instead the damp prison cell 
where he had slept under sentence of death while his 
father paid at the stake for his loyalty to Judaism. 
To Don Luis, then only a boy, had come the choice 
of baptism or the same horrible death, and he had 
not found it hard to choose. Now he shivered a 
little, in spite of the warm sunshine, as he wondered 
whether the cold walls of the prison were again be¬ 
ginning to close about him. 

“What must I do to prove my loyalty to the 
Church?” he repeated. 


18 


IN MANY LANDS 


“I have heard that your friend Don Pedro and 
certain members of his family have been acting 
somewhat suspiciously of late,” said the Cardinal 
in his smooth tones. “If such accusations are false, 
we need go no further. If, on the other hand, Don 
Pedro and others of his family have been drifting 
back into Judaism, it will be easy for you to obtain 
information, since your father stood so high among 
the Jews of his own day. You understand me?” 
he ended significantly. 

“You mean you wish me to spy upon Don Pedro 
and those of his household?” asked Don Luis. “You 
know he is one of my dearest friends.” 

The Cardinal laid one of his white, jeweled hands 
upon the young man’s shoulder. “If Don Pedro 
were your own brother and were guilty, it would be 
your duty as a loyal son of the Church to hand him 
over to the officers of the Inquisition,” he said 
sternly. His keen eyes grew crafty. “You are 
rich,” he said, with a significant glance about the 
beautiful court, “but not rich enough to wed the 
king’s niece. You see,” smiling, “I have heard 
more than one rumor about you! But if Don Pedro 
were found guilty of returning to Judaism, it might 
be arranged that certain of his confiscated estates 
would revert to you. With such a fortune, our mon¬ 
arch would not long withhold his consent to your 
suit for his niece’s hand.” 

Don Luis rose and bowed low before the Cardi¬ 
nal. “I do not need this added favor from the king 
to teach me my duty,” he said quietly. “I wish only 
to prove to you that my loyalty to the Church is 


THE MAN WHO CAME LATE 


19 


greater than even my love for my old friend, Don 
Pedro. Should I find him guilty of heresy, I shall 
count myself blessed if I am able to hand him over 
to the officers of the Inquisition.” 

The Cardinal rose to leave, settling his bright 
robes about him. “I knew that I could count on your 
loyalty in all things,” he said graciously. 

“I will accompany you to the gate,” was all Don 
Luis answered. Turning to one of his servants he 
gave a low, whispered order. “Saddle my horse at 
once,” he commanded, then turned back smilingly to 
his guest. 

A few moments later Don Luis rode swiftly down 
the street to his friend’s estate. He, too, had heard 
rumors of Don Pedro’s back-sliding; although a 
loyal son of the Church, he knew that the Jewish 
festival of Rosh Hashonah had arrived and that it 
would not be difficult to find recanting Jews cele¬ 
brating the ancient holy day of his people. A mock¬ 
ing smile played about his mouth as he thought of 
the bribes the Cardinal had offered him; he spurred 
on his horse and rode faster than ever. 

Reaching the stately mansion, he found his way 
to the cellar down a secret passage that Don Pedro 
had once shown him in all the simplicity of his 
trusting heart. Again Don Luis smiled mockingly 
at his friend’s faith in him, a faith that might deliver 
him into the executioner’s hands. Moving softly, 
daring scarcely to breathe, he who had been appointed 
to betray his brethren crept to the open door of the 
secret cellar. 

For a moment the young man who had guarded 


20 


IN MANY LANDS 


it with ready dagger had relaxed his watchfulness. 
He now stood facing the improvised altar at which 
Don Alfonso stood, the ram’s horn at his lips. 
Taught long ago by his own father to sound the 
trumpet, the patriarch blew the first blast upon the 
Shofar. 

But only once—for the youth who guarded the 
door, warned, by he knew not what, that he was 
not alone, turned to face the man who lurked in the 
shadows. In his sudden spasm of fear he did not 
wait to see whether the man who had come late was 
friend or foe; with a low cry of alarm he hurled him¬ 
self upon the intruder and buried his dagger in his 
breast. 

Don Luis lurched to the ground, his life blood 
staining his rich garments and the jeweled chain 
which the king’s niece had given him for a love 
token. His fellow Jews gathered about him, white, 
horrified, this one demanding why he had come so 
late, the next bidding the others cease their lamen¬ 
tations lest they be discovered. The boy who had 
guarded the door bent over the dying man, almost 
mad with grief. “I thought you had come to spy 
upon us,” he sobbed, “and I struck before I saw 
your face.” 

Don Luis waved him aside. “Lose not a mo¬ 
ment,” he gasped, “but have me secretly conveyed 
to my home and give out word that I fell by my own 
hand. And do not tarry here longer, for the spies 
of the Inquisition are on your track, and unless you 
are more wary in the future they will discover you. 
Today the Cardinal told me—he lingered—and that 


THE MAN WHO CAME LATE 


21 


is why—I came so late-.” He panted for breath 

and clung to the hand of old Don Alfonso who bent 
over him. 

“He thought I would betray you,” said Don 
Luis, and he smiled in spite of the agony of death 
closing in about him. “But I came to warn you— 
you are all my friends—and Jews—and I cannot 
forget how my father died.” His head in its richly- 
plumed cap fell heavily upon his breast, but with a 
last effort he pulled himself up to a sitting position. 
“I would die as my father died,” he panted, “Shema 

YIsrael - !” And he fell back upon Don Alfonso’s 

breast. 

The old man raised his face, and those about him 
saw the tears coursing down his wrinkled cheeks. 
“The memory of the righteous is a blessing,” he 
murmured. “He has not shamed his father in his 
death, for he, too, dies for Israel. Shema Yisrael” 
he chanted, and the others took up the words, mourn¬ 
ing their dead. 

So a New Year dawned for Don Pedro and his 
friends as, heavy-hearted and fearful, they went 
forth into the world with masked faces, seeing a spy 
of the Inquisition at every turn, yet determined to 
worship, although in secret, the God they had been 
forced to deny. 




YOM KIPPUR 

THE DAY OF ATONEMENT 

Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, comes seven 
days after Rosh Hashonah. During the ten days of 
penitence, including the two holy days, many Jews offer 
special prayers at their early morning services, asking 
forgiveness for any sins committed during the past 
year. The Sabbath which falls during this period is 
called the Sabbath of Return, because on this day the 
worshippers in the synagogue listen to the reading of 
certain portions from the prophet Isaiah urging the 
Jewish people to return to God. 

Yom Kippur, which is kept as a fast day, is the most 
solemn holy day in the Jewish calendar. In old times 
it was set aside for special sacrifices in the Temple; 
here the High Priest appeared before the people dressed 
in the prescribed garments of linen, a coat and breeches, 
a girdle and a cap of peculiar design. First he offered 
up a young bull in the name of his own family; after 
praying for his fellow-priests in Israel, he sprinkled the 
purifying blood of the animal about the Holy of Holies, 
a room in the Temple which no man might enter except 
the High Priest, and forbidden even to him except on 
Yom Kippur. From the two goats brought before him, 
one, selected by lot, was set apart for the Lord and slain 
as a sacrifice; the other, the “scape-goat, 1 ” was then 
brought forward; now the High Priest confessed the 

22 


YOM KIPPUR 


23 


sins of all Israel and prayed that this special sacrifice 
would be the sin-offering for the entire nation. Then, 
as symbol of the desire of the people to drive all evil 
out of their midst, the scape-goat was driven out into 
the hills and the desolate places outside Jerusalem. 

But the destruction of the Temple meant the end of 
sacrifices upon the altar. Prayer and charity, taught 
the rabbis, would take the place of sacrifice. Yom 
Kippur, from the day of special sacrifice, grew to be 
the day of special prayers. 

From early morning until dusk the Jew today spends 
Yom Kippur in prayer. Many wear shrouds to remind 
them of the shortness of life and the certainty of death 
and Judgment. On this Day of Judgment, when the 
Jew prays for forgiveness for sins of the past year, he 
remembers that he must first forgive his neighbors for 
any offense they may have committed against him as 
well as ask their forgiveness for any fault of his own. 
On this solemn day he resolves to do better in the year 
to come. Although a solemn day, Yom Kippur is not a 
day of penance or sorrow. In the days when the Tem¬ 
ple stood, the Jewish people had a lovely custom called 
the Dance in the Vine-yards. The maidens of Jeru¬ 
salem would exchange garments, rich girls with poor, 
that those less wealthy would not be put to shame by 
the more costly clothes of their friends. As they danced, 
they sang happy songs, and often a young man watch¬ 
ing them would choose a bride from among them in this 
festal dance of Yom Kippur. 

Today there are no happy rites or merrymaking. 
But Yom Kippur, with its assurance of forgiveness and 
a closer unity with God, brings a happiness unequalled 
by any other Jewish holy day. 



THE ATONEMENT OFFERING 


In other days we placed upon Thine altar 
The sacrifice of sin: 

All Israel bowed before the awful portals — 
Thine high priest entered in. 

He entered in and we lay awed and waiting 
Upon the Temple floor, 

Until we knew our gift had been accepted, 
And hoped to live once more. 


Still Israel, sin-offering of the nations. 

Trembles beneath the knife: 

When wilt Thou give the sign of our redemption, 
And grant us life £ 



24 























THE DAY OF RETURN* 

A Story of Yom Kip pur in Holland 


Even until the day of her death Maria Nunez 
retained the wondrous beauty that had won her fame 
in the courts of distant Portugal and had attracted 
the favor of Queen Elizabeth herself in the days 
when England humbled Spain and became the mis¬ 
tress of the sea. Her children’s children that 
crowded about her knee never tired of hearing of 
her adventures ere she came to Holland; and the 
story they loved best of all was the tale of that 
strange Yom Kippur in Amsterdam, when the Jew¬ 
ish refugees from Spain and Portugal feared that 
they had to seek still further for a place of freedom. 

In the dark days when Spain and Portugal perse¬ 
cuted the unhappy Jews within their borders, many 
driven by fear of banishment from the land they had 
learned to love pretended to accept baptism and the 
teachings of the Church. These were called Mar- 
ranos, and so skilfully did they play their parts 
that many of them rose high in favor of the court, 
considered by all the world as Christians, while in 
their hearts they still followed the religion of Israel. 
Some of them even practiced Jewish rites in the 


♦Practically every incident in this story is founded on fact 

25 



26 


IN MANY LANDS 


utmost secrecy, for they knew that betrayal to the 
officers of the Inquisition meant a cruel and certain 
death. 

Now among these Marranos, or secret Jews, was 
a noble woman, Mayor Rodrigues, who longed with 
all her heart to practice the religion of Israel before 
the whole world. The people of Holland, who at a 
later day were to grant freedom of religious worship 
to a band of Englishmen called Pilgrims, were even 
then noted for their tolerance, since they too had 
broken from the bigoted rule of Spain and knew the 
horrors of persecution. And so Mayor Rodrigues, 
a loyal mother in Israel, dreamed that her four chil¬ 
dren would some day dwell in Holland where they 
might worship the God of their fathers in peace. 

So when in 1593 a ship left Portugal bearing ten 
Marranos on board, Miguel Lopez, long a secret 
Jew but now desiring to live as befitted a son of 
Israel, was among the refugees, taking as his charge 
two of the noble woman’s children, Manuel Lopez 
Pereira and the boy’s lovely sister, Maria Nunez. 
Not only did Maria charm all on board the vessel by 
her beauty of face and charm of manner, but when 
danger threatened her people she was able like Esther 
of old to avert the disaster and turn their mourning 
into joy. For in those days when the hatred between 
England and the kingdoms of the Spanish peninsula 
was deep and bitter, the English ships were charged 
to capture any vessel they might find sailing the seas 
beneath the Spanish-Portuguese flag. The vessel 
on which Maria Nunez sought to escape from Por- 


THE DAY OF RETURN 


27 


tugal was captured by a crew under the command of 
a powerful English duke, who, seeing her, loved her 
and desired to make her his bride. It was not an 
easy choice for the girl to make; reared in the lux¬ 
uries of the Portuguese kingdom, it was hard to give 
up the ease and comforts promised her in the English 
court for the uncertainties and hardship which 
awaited her in Holland. But Maria, true to her 
mother’s teachings, declared that she wished to live 
as a Jewess and could not accept him as her husband. 

With the other refugees and the crew of the 
captured vessel she was taken to London as a pris¬ 
oner. Here Queen Elizabeth, as interested at times 
in the love affairs of her courtiers as in statecraft, 
heard of the duke’s unsuccessful suit and ordered 
that the beautiful Jewess who had refused his hand 
should be brought before her. The old stories tell 
how the girl’s beauty charmed Elizabeth, who gave 
her rich presents and rode with her in an open car¬ 
riage through the London streets that she might 
see the city. And one legend tells that when the 
queen asked the Portuguese maiden to name some 
gift or privilege as token of the English monarch’s 
friendship, Maria Nunez asked only that she and 
her fellow Jews be given safe conduct to Holland 
where they might know that freedom denied them 
not only in Spain and Portugal but also in mighty 
England, from which they had long been banished. 

Elizabeth granted her request, dismissing the girl 
with the gift of a rich gold chain which her descend¬ 
ants show with pride to this very day; then the brave 


28 


IN MANY LANDS 


little band set out for Holland, their hearts high 
with hope. But theirs was a perilous and stormy 
voyage and the captain had actually given up their 
vessel for lost when he was able to reach the harbor 
of Emden in safety. Here among the handful of 
German Jews dwelt the learned Moses Uri Halevi, 
a Jew at heart like themselves but fearful of pro¬ 
fessing his faith too loudly before the inhabitants of 
the place where he lived. 

“Go to Amsterdam if you would confess your 
faith,” he advised. “The folk of Amsterdam will 
surely be tolerant to those who have sought to escape 
from the Church which for so long ruled Holland 
with a rod of iron. Here the people still look with 
suspicion on strangers and it might not be safe to 
profess your conversion to Judaism too strongly; 
but in Amsterdam you will come to no harm.” 

“And why do you not dwell in Amsterdam?” 
asked Jacob Tirado, the leader of the Portuguese 
refugees. 

“It has long been the desire of my heart,” con¬ 
fessed Moses Uri, “and if God wills I may join 
you there ere many days, and we will enjoy peace 
and the free exercise of our religion.” 

He kept his word. Shortly after the Jews from 
Portugal arrived in Amsterdam, he joined them with 
his family, and with the other Marranos was re¬ 
ceived back into Judaism. Untroubled by the Dutch 
burghers, the little community of Israel gradually 
increased as other Jews, mainly from Portugal, and 
Spain, joined them, winning favor with their neigh¬ 
bors by their industry and sobriety. These wretched 


THE DAY OF RETURN 


29 


people who for their religion’s sake had long dwelt 
under the shadow of the sword in their homelands, 
brought to hospitable little Holland gifts which their 
tyrants had despised; in time the remnant that Spain 
had persecuted brought wealth and prosperity to the 
kingdom which had broken the Spanish yoke and 
finally succeeded in capturing for Holland a large 
portion of the lucrative trade with the West Indies. 
But the story of the Jewish merchants of India and 
South America does not touch the tale of Maria 
Nunez; we may follow their adventures some other 
day after we have listened to the story Maria 
Nunez told her children’s children of that memorable 
Day of Atonement not long after she had come to 
dwell in Amsterdam. 

“We were still a little afraid of our Christian 
neighbors,” she always began her tale, “for all of 
us had known the horrors of the rule of the Inquisi¬ 
tion, and, although the Dutch were kind and tolerant, 
we had not yet learned to breathe freely and walk 
proudly like free people. And so when we first met 
for our Yom Kippur services in Amsterdam, we did 
so secretly, fearing at least insult or ridicule from 
the gentiles who did not understand our ways. 

“It was before my dear mother and my younger 
brother and sister joined us, and I wished with all 
my heart that they too might know the joy of wor¬ 
shipping God in the solemn fashion our fathers had 
followed so many years before. But your dear 
grandfather was with me and his love comforted me 
a little for their absence, even for the loss of my 
father who had died in Portugal since my departure 


30 


IN MANY LANDS 


and was never to know the new freedom that his 
children had found in Holland. 

“So we met in secret at the home of Don Samuel 
Palache, a man of great importance in that day, 
since he was the ambassador of Morocco to the Neth¬ 
erlands. And the men wore shrouds and praying 
shawls and slipped into their places quietly, not only 
because it was a solemn day, but because they felt a 
great awe that after so many years we Jews might 
keep our Day of Atonement without fear of the 
stake. From where I sat with the other women I 
could see your grandfather’s face, drawn and white. 
And as he prayed, he often wept; for he also grieved 
for his dear ones who could never know the freedom 
that had come to us that day. 

“That learned man we met in Emden, Moses Uri, 
and his son, led us in the services, and when the 
prayers were chanted I could .distinguish the sweet 
voice of Jacob Israel Belmonte, the poet who had 
come to us from Madeira. And I remember to this 
day that it was he who gave the alarm when the 
armed men burst through the doors and bore down 
upon us. 

“It was a dreadful moment. Many of us had 
known such things to happen in Spain and Portugal; 
all of us had heard stories of old men dragged to 
their deaths from their prayers and little children 
snatched from their mother’s arms to the baptismal 
font. We were not cowards—had not many of us 
braved a hundred deaths to come to Holland where 
we might be free to worship our God before all 
men?—but at that moment we thought only of the 


31 


THE DAY OF RETURN 

horrors of the Inquisition and fled before the sol¬ 
diers. This was unwise; then they thought certain 
evil of us and searched our house of prayer with 
new suspicions in their hearts and afterwards they 
led our leaders to prison. 

“They knew Moses Uri and his son who had 
directed our Yom Kippur service for honorable 
men with clean hands; but now the judges accused 
them of gathering our people in secret meeting for 
unlawful purposes. Then Jacob Tirado, who could 
speak to them in the Latin tongue, demanded to 
know why he and his friends had been seized like 
common criminals and of what crime they stood ac¬ 
cused. He spoke boldly, for he was a proud man 
and proud of his brethren who had always borne 
themselves honorably in Amsterdam. 

“Then the first of the judges spoke and accused 
Jacob Tirado and the others of being Catholic con¬ 
spirators who had met together in secret to plot 
against the Dutch, lately freed from the rule of Cath¬ 
olic Spain. Yes, he accused our brethren who had 
suffered so much beneath the rule of the Church, 
denouncing us as Catholics who had held a secret 
mass, although he was obliged to confess that the 
soldiers had found neither crucifix nor sacred wafers 
when they searched our meeting place. 

“But at this Jacob Tirado laughed loudly, yes* 
into the very faces of his accusers. And he said: 
‘Would a lamb, seeing its brothers mangled by the 
wolf, try to play the wolf if he were once in his own 
sheepfold ?’ And he showed the scars on the bodies 
of several of our brethren, men who escaped from 


32 


IN MANY LANDS 


the clutches of the Inquisition, and he swore a great 
oath that he and his brethren were loyal to Holland 
and had no love for Spain or Portugal in their hearts. 
‘I speak for these men,’ he said, 'and they will bear 
me out: if you send us back to the hell from which 
we have escaped, we will throw ourselves into the 
sea. For if the folk of Holland hate the Inquisition, 
know that we Jews hate it with even a greater bit¬ 
terness.’ 

"So Jacob Tirado convinced the judges that there 
was no harm in our meeting and the judges dismissed 
him and the other prisoners with signs of favor. 
They hurried back to the deserted meeting place, and 
that night we all assembled just before sundown and 
concluded our first real Yom Kippur service in Hol¬ 
land. And now we no longer trembled, for we knew 
that the God of Israel had heard our petitions and 
would bless His people with peace. As we came out 
into the streets our neighbors greeted us kindly, and 
though many of us were faint from fasting our 
hearts were joyful and we could have sung aloud in 
our gladness. It all happened a very long time ago, 
children, but I remember until this day the little 
child with blue eyes and flaxen hair who smiled up 
at me as I patted her bright head and gave me a 
flower from the nosegay she carried. It is withered 
and scentless now, but once it was beautiful and 
fragrant, and I laid it away with a lock of my dear 
mother’s hair and the gold chain Queen Elizabeth 
had placed about my neck and several tokens from 
your grandfather. . . . All old and of another day, 


THE DAY OF RETURN 33 

children, and I am an old woman now who loves to 
sit by the fire and tell tales of long ago. 

‘‘But there is no tale I love so well as that of our 
first real Yom Kippur in Holland—for on that day 
we indeed returned to the God of our fathers in the 
sight of all men and found the right to worship Him 
in truth and freedom. Two years later we built a 
beautiful synagogue with the full permission of the 
authorities, and it was in the place you know, built 
by pious Jacob Tirado, that I often sat by my good 
mother’s side after she came to Holland. A fair 
place, children, but often I long to be worshipping 
again in the house of Samuel Palache, where we met 
in secret on Yom Kippur morning long ago.” 


SUCCOTH 

THE JEWISH THANKSGIVING 

Succoth, the great harvest festival of the Jew, sug¬ 
gests by its name the time when the Children of Israel, 
encamped in the Wilderness, dwelt in tents or booths. 
Later when the Jewish people dwelt in Palestine it was 
a custom among the farmers to build rude booths, or 
succahs, for themselves out in the fields where they 
might sleep during the harvest season. 

The Pilgrim Fathers, when they kept their first 
Thanksgiving Day in America, no doubt received the 
idea from their Hebrew bibles which they knew so 
well. When they set apart a day on which to thank 
God for His harvest, they must have recalled the 
ancient pilgrim feasts of our people, the three yearly 
pilgrimages made to Jerusalem that the farmers might 
lay their offerings from field and tree upon the altar 
and thank God for His bounties. 

Succoth, the time of the late harvest in Palestine, was 
a time for general rejoicing. It was incumbent for 
every male Israelite above the age of thirteen to journey 
to Jerusalem for the annual celebration; often the 
women and older children, as well as the servants of the 
household, journeyed with the master to the city of 
David, which was so crowded with visitors that many 
dwelt during their week’s stay in booths outside the 
city’s walls. The finest of the harvest was laid upon 

34 


SUCCOTH 


35 


the altar; prayers were offered for rain and dew; there 
was a gathering at the brook Kishon for the Feast of 
the Water Pouring, where water was poured upon the 
ground, symbolic of the life-giving waters of the rainy 
season, which began soon after Succoth. Most pictur¬ 
esque of all were the processions of happy pilgrims 
carrying goodly boughs and willows of the brook, sing¬ 
ing their grateful harvest songs. 

But during the long period of exile the Jew was not 
only banished from Palestine, but forbidden to hold 
land or till the soil in the countries in which he lived as 
an alien. Still he never forgot the joyous harvest days 
of Palestine; in his squalid Ghettoes he reared tiny 
booths and sang hymns of thanks for a harvest he had 
never gathered, offered up prayers for rain and dew, 
although he no longer tilled the soil. 

Now the frail succah became a symbol of hope, for 
the Jew remembered how God had protected his desert¬ 
dwelling ancestors in days of old and knew that He 
would never fail His people; the roof was left open to 
the sky that the persecuted and unhappy Children of 
Israel might look up to the stars and raise their hearts 
in hope; for a week they ate in their succah homes, 
made beautiful with autumn leaves and fruits; every 
night they lingered in their traditional refuge to sing 
their hymns of praise and gratitude for the harvest they 
had not reaped. 

Today the Jew rears his succah in every land—espe¬ 
cially in our flourishing agricultural colonies of Pales¬ 
tine—or, if he is a city dweller, he erects a booth in his 
yard or upon the roof of his tenement or in his syna¬ 
gogue. This succah is decorated with fruits and leaves 
and flowers and the congregation gather about it to 
repeat the old harvest prayers and perform one of the 


36 


IN MANY LANDS 


most beautiful ceremonies of the day, the waving of 
the lulab and esrog (the palm and citron), Palestinian 
plants, often imported from the Holy Land for this 
occasion. Sacrificial offerings can no longer be carried 
to the Temple, but since the Jew has come to believe 
that charity as well as prayer takes the place of sacri¬ 
fice, the Succoth offerings are usually distributed among 
the sick and the needy. Succoth is an occasion of joy 
for the Jew, so he feels bound to share it with others. 

No longer a people without a land, free to reap the 
harvest they have long celebrated with empty hands, 
Jews today gather to sing a new song in the Tent of 
Israel which God has preserved for them through the 
ages. 


SUCCOTH IN WARTIME 

O God who crowns the year with good. 
Who girds with joy the hills. 

Who blesses vineyard, field and wood, 
And flocks beside the rills, 

(Those cool and shadowy waters, where 
Young David used to play!) 

O God of Harvest, hear the prayer 
Our People raise today! 

Who gathers now the golden grain, 

A harvest none may reap? 

Who herds the flocks across the plain, 
Where hungry orphans weep? 

Like mourners of all joy stripped bare, 
The lonely fruit trees sway: 

0 God of Harvest, hear the prayer 
Our People raise today! 

We are a weary folk, O God, 

In grief and tears grown old; 

Give back the hills our fathers trod, 

Their harvest fields of gold; 

Return to us their vineyards fair, 

That lie so far away: 

O God of Harvest, hear the prayer, 

Our People raise today! 






37 






THE TENT OF ISRAEL 


A Story of Succoth in Russia 


He had come home from a foreign prison camp, 
and for a moment the returned soldier imagined that 
he was still sleeping beside the road and dreaming 
dreams of his boyhood. More than once during 
the autumns of those endless centuries of war he 
had allowed himself for a little space to picture the 
place of his birth and the simple, lovely festivals of 
the fall seasons. Oftenest of all, he dreamed of 
Succoth, with the booths for every family, the fruits 
glowing amid the green leaves, the white cloth, the 
festal lights. He heard again the hymns of joy and 
gratitude to the God of Israel, who even in the 
darkest hours had granted a tent of refuge to His 
people. But during the last leaden summer months 
his sufferings had wiped away all recollections of the 
place he had once called his home. 

Now Simeon stood once more in the place where 
he had grown to manhood. He had found the spot 
after hundreds of miles of painful travel, following 
an unseen trail as surely as a wounded animal that 
crawls back to its lair to die. He had expected to 
find a wilderness—and his fears were realized. The 

Jewish quarter of the city which was his birthplace 

38 


THE TENT OF ISRAEL 


39 


had been crossed and recrossed by hostile armies, 
by war-maddened neighbors till it lay all upturned 
and broken like a plowed field in the springtime. 
The house where he had kissed his mother good-bye 
and whispered farewell to a girl he now shuddered 
to remember (for why should she have been spared?) 
lay a heap of huddled stones. He wondered dully, 
but without suffering, for his tired brain and soul 
no longer quivered beneath the lash, where the two 
women rested after the want and terror of the long 
hard years. And he was glad, very glad, that his 
old father had died before the war began. He, at 
least, had escaped the agony which had torn the 
world asunder. 

Simeon stumbled on in the early autumn twilight, 
wandering aimlessly, for he felt that there was noth¬ 
ing left to seek in the whole world. Here and there 
a pile of stones or household goods lay scattered and 
horrible in their decay. Simeon, who had learned to 
look unmoved on the red ruins of a battlefield, shud¬ 
dered at the shattered remains of what had once 
been a cradle; his hand trembled as he picked up 
from the ground a piece of metal corroded and 
trampled out of all semblance to a candlestick for 
the Sabbath. To his broken mind it seemed a hor¬ 
rible thing that these inanimate objects, torn from 
their old sanctuaries, should suffer the fate of their 
masters. 

Suddenly, he stopped, listened perplexed, and 
passed his hand across his forehead as a man trou¬ 
bled with an evil dream. Had he again fallen by 
the wayside to dream of Succoth in a land untroubled 


40 


IN MANY LANDS 


by war? Or did he indeed hear the old hymns of 
promise and thanksgiving that had haunted him in 
his exile? 

He pressed on feverishly, breathing with difficulty 
as he saw huddled against a shell-shattered wall a 
little booth made of branches. It was undecked; no 
fruit glowed among the green leaves, no festal lights 
shone forth in gladness. Standing before the low 
door Simeon saw a little group of Jews, ragged, pale, 
emaciated. With difficulty he recognized his old 
neighbors: his uncle’s wife, whom he had left a 
comely young woman, now sharp of feature, with 
vacant eyes; little Benjamin, her son, a half-grown 
boy, who kept gazing furtively behind him like a 
frightened animal; several women; Moses the car¬ 
penter; Reb Abraham, the blind old scholar, his 
long beard sweeping his sunken breast. Simeon 
gazed on them with fear-widened eyes. They 
seemed, these old neighbors of his, like horrible 
figures in a horrible dream. And yet he knew they 
were alive and that he must speak to them. 

“Sholom Aleichem,” he said hoarsely, and took 
a step forward. 

The others turned, shrinking in their dreadful, 
habitual terror. Then Moses the carpenter, came 
forward and drew him into the hut. 

“You are the first of our soldiers to come back,” 
he greeted Simeon, tonelessly. 

Simeon clutched his old neighbor’s ragged shoul¬ 
der, struggling for speech. “My mother?” he asked 
at last, although he knew the answer. 


THE TENT OF ISRAEL 41 

“Dead—hunger. What would you have? She 
was an old woman/’ 

Simeon turned his eyes away. There was one 
more question he must ask, although he feared 
Moses’ answer more than at first. “And the daugh¬ 
ter of Reb Judah?” 

“Reb Judah’s bride-maiden? There were soldiers 
—she flung herself in the river. So did the other 
maidens.” 

A long silence. The soldier was about to take a 
vacant place at the bare board that served as a table 
when Moses, the carpenter, drew him from the hut. 
“He,” pointing to Reb Abraham, “is spared much 
since he walks in darkness. We have lied to him, 
for why should he suffer more? Do not undeceive 
him. And be ready to run with us at the first alarm. 
Meetings are forbidden, and if the gentiles find us 
here—” with a hopeless shrug he drew Simeon into 
the Succah. 

“Here is Simeon, son of Reb Asher, the memory 
of the righteous for a blessing,” he told the blind 
old man at the head of the table, “just returned from 
the war.” 

“Sholom Aleichem,” greeted the host, indicating 
a place at his right hand. “You have come back to 
sit in our Succah. Last year we dared not raise one, 
but this year, the Holy One, blessed be He, has 
granted us our tent of refuge. We have no wine, 
but—” he waved his claw-like hand across the empty 
board, “but we have a little food.” And Simeon 
saw that at the old man’s place alone lay several 
crusts of coarse bread. “And all the rest is as per- 


42 


IN MANY LANDS 


feet as in old days. The lamp which hung in my 
father’s father’s Succah,” and he pointed to the 
bare ceiling, “the fruit which a brother in Eretz 
Yisrael sent Reb Moses and which arrived here 
safely—by a miracle.” His face glowed with joy. 
“The Holy One, blessed be He, hath not forgotten 
His people.” 

“Hush,” warned one of the women. “If they 
should hear us-” 

The old man smiled serenely. “We are in His 
tent of refuge,” he answered confidently, “and no 
harm can come to us. For eight days will we eat 
and rejoice in our Succah as our fathers did in hap¬ 
pier days. For we have again come into our her¬ 
itage.” 

Suddenly one of the older women burst into hys¬ 
terical sobbing. “My son,” she moaned. “He went 
away with you—and he did not return. And my 
daughter—my bride-maiden.” 

“Hush!” said the old man, almost sternly. “On 
this night we are forbidden to weep.” His face, 
white and shrunken, suddenly softened with a great 
pity. “Do not weep at all for them,” he counseled 
gently, “for it is well with them who died for His 
holy name. As surely as our fathers who in days 
of old passed through the flames to proclaim His 
unity.” 

But a younger woman, a child in her arms, would 
not be silenced. “Must we suffer forever?” she 
cried passionately. “My husband will never return. 
This child he left a rosy baby will never walk or 
run about and play. He is not sick; he does not need 



THE TENT OF ISRAEL 


43 


medicine—only food. Must we wait forever?” 
Her words died away in a dreary wailing. 

“I heard that soon Jews from America will come 
with food and clothes for all of us,” said the boy 
Benjamin timidly, his eyes ever fastened fearfully 
upon the low door. 

“America is only another name for God,” com¬ 
mented Simeon, and no one checked his blasphemy. 

“Come—come,” the old blind man raised his hand 
authoritatively. “Let us go on.” 

“But sing more softly,” cautioned Moses, the car¬ 
penter. “If we are discovered-” 

The boy Benjamin sprang up trembling. “See,” 
he whispered, “over there beyond the wall. They are 
coming with lanterns-” 

Moses helped the old man to his feet. “Let us go 
home for tonight, Reb Abraham,” he whispered. 
“Perhaps tomorrow night—” and despite the old 
man’s protests began to guide him to the comparative 
safety of his own cellar. “And come with us,” he 
invited Simeon. 

But Simeon did not answer. In a moment the 
others had faded into the night, but he remained 
standing before the low door of the deserted Succah. 
These others had grown so used to the drab wretched¬ 
ness of their lives, that they no longer wished even 
for death. Misery had become their accustomed life. 
But as for him, a mad look in his eyes, he waited for 
the gang of hoodlums that bore down upon him. 

The Succah lay in ruins and Simeon rested upon 
the trampled branches, no longer plagued with 




44 


IN MANY LANDS 

dreams. But in his damp cellar the soul of Reb 
Abraham burned with hope. 

“Tomorrow will we eat in our Succah,” he chanted, 
with something of the singsong glee of a little child. 
“Ah, the Holy One, blessed be He, hath not deserted 
us, but hath raised for Israel a tent of refuge even 
in the wilderness.” 


SIMCHATH TORAH 

THE REJOICING OVER THE TORAH 

Simchath Torah, a minor Jewish holy day, follows 
immediately after the harvest festival of Succoth. Like 
Succoth it is a festival of joy, but now the Jew rejoices 
in the possession of his Torah. For the Torah is more 
than a religious book to the Jew, more than a Law by 
which he lives and for which he is willing to die. The 
Jew may be said to rejoice in his religion, his one con¬ 
solation in time of exile and persecution. Of all peoples 
in the world he is the one to thank God not only for 
the fruits of the earth but for the Law and the litera¬ 
ture which God has given him for his guidance. 

On Simchath Torah our people finish reading the 
Torah for the year; but the reader immediately turns 
back to the beginning and reads the first chapter of 
Genesis. For, says an ancient legend, if the Evil One 
saw the Jews rejoicing on Simchath Torah he might 
sneeringly say: “Behold, the People of the Book are 
delighted that they have completed their task of read¬ 
ing it!” So, to confound Satan, the Jew begins at once 
to reread his Torah, making merry because he need 
never cease his study of the sacred volume. 

The life of the Jew in his long exile was so bitter and 
unhappy that it is easy to understand why he took every 
opportunity both in the home and the synagogue to find 
in his religious ceremonies the joy and the merriment 

45 


46 


IN MANY LANDS 


denied him in the world beyond the Ghetto gates. Just 
as the little child when first carried to the Cheder 
(Hebrew school) received honey and cakes to teach 
him the sweetness of the Law, so the older children 
were allowed to scramble for nuts and sweetmeats on 
this festal day. Perhaps they enjoyed even more the 
processional in which even the youngest Cheder pupils 
were allowed to join. The rabbis and the older men of 
the congregation led the way, carrying in their arms the 
scrolls of the Law; then the boys followed, carrying 
flags of their own design, many of them with lighted 
candles mounted upon their staves. Down the aisles 
of the synagogue they passed, the leaders carrying their 
richly bound scrolls like so many flags, the congrega¬ 
tion bending to kiss the holy book as it was borne past. 

During the hard years of the World War hundreds 
of Jewish communities in Europe were literally up¬ 
rooted and the wandering people were driven forth to 
wander hopelessly through an alien and antagonistic 
world. Again and again the little procession of refu¬ 
gees was led by its rabbi, carrying close to his breast 
the Flag of Judah, the Sefer Torah, brought from the 
deserted synagogue as the greatest treasure of Israel. 
Many of these scrolls were carried to the larger Jewish 
centers like Warsaw and deposited in one of the syna¬ 
gogues for safe-keeping, to rest there until the warring 
nations would declare peace and allow the Jewish exiles 
to gather together again for the worship of their God. 

In the dreadful days of disease and famine that fol¬ 
lowed the war, a traveler from America visited a Jewish 
community in Poland. The place was almost destroyed, 
the houses burned, the people starving. An old man 
approached the American and begged him for help. 

'‘Tell the rich people in America they must help us,” 


SIMCHATH TORAH 


47 


said the old rabbi. “Tell them not to send us food and 
clothing first, because we are used to starving and freez¬ 
ing. But beg the Jews in America to send us money to 
rebuild our school and our synagogue. We can wait 
a little while longer for bread, but if we do not have the 
bread of the Torah we will die.” 

He spoke as one of the People of the Book, a people 
who, while they dream of peace, fight for their flag 
which has outlived the thrones of all their ancient per¬ 
secutors, their Sefer Torah. 


SIMCHATH TORAH 




It was good to give thanks to the Lord 
For the sun and the rain, 

For the corn and the wine He bestowed, 
For the golden-wreathed grain: 

But now as the festal week ends, 

’Neath the palms that we wave, 

We cry thanks to the Giver of Good 
For the Torah He gave. 

For the Law of the Lord it is good, 

And His precepts are right: 

The simple of heart He makes wise; 

His commandments bring light; 

More goodly His words than fine gold, 
Ay, a treasure to save; 

And we thank with rejoicing our God 
For the Torah He gave. 

O harvesters, rich in your spoils, 

Not alone by the bread 
Which we win by the sweat of our brows 
Are the sons of dust fed; 

Nay, we live by the words of His mouth, 
And ’neath palms that we wave, 

We cry thanks to the Giver of Good 
For the Torah He gave. 


48 












THE FLAG OF MY PEOPLE * 

A Story of Simchath Torah in Russia 


Suddenly I remembered that the next day would 
be Simchath Torah. I was cold and wet and hungry; 
as I lay shivering among the old men and half 
grown boys, who had thrown themselves down in 
the rank grass beside the road to spend the night, 
I thought of the way we used to celebrate Simchath 
Torah in our own little town before the war came to 
us. Half asleep, I seemed to see again our old syna¬ 
gogue and the men swaying in their talethim (pray¬ 
ing shawls) and the little boys marching with bright 
flags. I remembered how once I had made a bright 
green and red one for poor little Reuben, my brother. 
I thought, too, of the joy in old Rabbi Yossel’s 
wrinkled face as he raised the Torah in its beauti¬ 
ful crimson wrappings. But now those wrappings 
were stained with mud and rain, and Rabbi Yossel 
lay beside me, his arms about the Scroll, as he sobbed 
in his weariness and grief, but softly, for he was an 
old man and very tired. 

We were never quite sure what had caused the 

* During the World War it was observed again and again 
that groups of refugee Jews carried their Torah with them 
into exile. 


49 



50 


IN MANY LANDS 


war. Not even mv father knew; but he and all the 
strong men of our town marched to the front when 
the order came. That made it hard for mother. It 
had always been difficult to get food for all of us 
children, even when father was with us; now there 
were many fast days, and my little brothers often 
cried because they were hungry. 

All this was hard enough, but at least we had a 
roof over our heads. Then the order came that by 
nightfall we would have to leave our homes. My 
mother had always been a quick, lively woman. She 
had managed the affairs of the shop when father 
was away; she could think and give orders as well 
as any man. But now she seemed stunned and be¬ 
wildered and could not do anything for herself nor 
tell me what to do. Perhaps it was because she was 
weak and ill, for my little sister was only a few days 
old, and mother had not been able to leave her bed 
until the order came to gather up our household 
things by evening. Now she sat half-dressed on the 
bed with the baby in her lap and my little brothers 
sitting on the floor near her. David had his finger 
in his mouth and seemed puzzled because mother 
didn’t say anything, but just stared ahead and did 
not even cry. After a while she picked out a few 
things for me to make into a bundle, some shawls 
and coats to keep the children warm, and the little 
food we had in the house. Once she cried; it was 
when I told her that it would make our pack too 
heavy if we carried her wedding linen. Mother had 
been very proud of that linen. She used to show it 
to the neighbor women when they came to see her. 


THE FLAG OF MY PEOPLE 


51 


She would never sell it no matter how poor we were; 
now she cried to leave it behind. 

I can’t tell much about what happened after sun¬ 
set. The soldiers drove us through the streets and 
it was horrible to hear the women and children 
screaming as we hurried to get away. As we passed 
the synagogue, Rabbi Yossel staggered through the 
door. He carried the Scroll in his arms; he would 
allow no one else to carry it although it must have 
been very heavy for such a feeble old man. He car¬ 
ried nothing for himself—not even an extra cloak— 
only his talith and his Torah. There was a man in 
town, Jacob the blacksmith, whom I had been taught 
to avoid as an Epikuros for he used to mock at holy 
things and the ways of our people. They did not 
take Jacob for the army because he was lame; so 
now he limped along with all of us homeless Jews, 
although we had never thought of him as a real Jew 
before. When it began to rain he took off his leather 
jacket and made Rabbi yossel put it on. The Rabbi 
wrapped it around the Scroll and blessed Jacob for 
helping protect the Torah. Jacob grew red and 
muttered in his beard as he limped on, the rain 
beating upon his shivering shoulders. 

When we looked back the sky was red for our 
town was already in flames. Some of the women 
prayed and wept and one of them laughed madly and 
clapped her hands to see the fire. It was now quite 
dark and we did not know to what place we were 
bound; we only knew that we must tramp along the 
muddy roads until the soldiers told us we could rest. 
At last they did order us to halt for the night, and 


52 


IN MANY LANDS 


we threw ourselves down beside the road and tried 
to sleep. I shall never forget that night. 

In the morning I found myself at Rabbi Yossel’s 
side. He did not walk with the other old men, but 
with the women who carried their household goods 
and their children. Once he smiled a little, and, 
pointing to his Scroll, said: “See, I am carrying my 
child too!” I remembered then that my mother had 
once told me how Rabbi Yossel’s wife had borne him 
one “kaddish,” but that the boy had died in his 
fourth year. I was glad at that moment that the 
rabbi’s wife and little child were resting beside my 
old grandparents in the Jewish cemetery. For the 
war could never make them unhappy. 

It was about noontime when we saw some soldiers, 
their bayonets glistening in the sun, a beautiful flag 
waving at the head of their procession. When I 
looked at them sitting so proudly upon their horses, 
and then glanced down at our miserable line of weak 
women and old men dragging themselves through the 
mud, I felt my heart would burst with shame. Here 
was I, almost thirteen and a man, yet I could not 
raise a hand to protect my mother who limped be¬ 
hind me, a frozen look of terror upon her white face. 

“Rabbi Yossel,” I told him, “it is the fault of men 
like my father and you and all the Jews of the world 
that we must suffer like this. (I know that I should 
not have spoken so to our old Rabbi, but at that 
moment I felt that I would die unless I told some¬ 
one what was in my heart.) Those men ride out to 
protect their homes and their mothers; men like my 
father and uncle go to help fight their battles for 


THE FLAG OF MY PEOPLE 


53 


them; but what reward will come to us? See my 
father! He will not find a home when he returns. 
And what can I do to help my mother? If she is 
trampled by the horses as Simon’s mother was last 
night, can I raise a hand to save her? These other 
people at least have a country to fight for—and a 
flag. But we have nothing.” 

“My son,” answered Rabbi Yossel, “we have a 
country and some day it will please the Holy One, 
blessed be He, to lead us back to it in joy. And 
have you forgotten that today is Simchath Torah— 
the day of thanksgiving for our flag?” And he 
raised the Torah that he carried. 

“If it is our flag, why don’t we fight for it?” I 
cried bitterly. 

He waved a trembling hand toward the line of 
broken women and old men who followed us. “We 
are fighting for our Torah today,” he said gently; 
“we are following our flag. When the old soldiers 
like me pass away, you and the other youths will 
carry the flag for us. There have been many na¬ 
tions, my son, who went to war on horses and carried 
swords and waving flags. But where are they to¬ 
day? They have been swept away forever, but 
Israel remains, and will remain until all the nations 
of the earth will lay aside their swords and come 
beneath Israel’s flag.” His wrinkled face glowed 
with a strange light. His lips moved, and though he 
spoke softly, I caught the Hebrew words, “In that 
day, God will be known as One, and His name be 
One.” 

I am glad he spoke to me like that and I will 


54 


IN MANY LANDS 


always cherish his words. Two days later when 
Rabbi Yossel died on the roadside, I took the Torah 
in my arms and carried it for the rest of our journey. 
Whenever I became tired I remembered that I car¬ 
ried the flag of my people and it gave me strength, 
strength for the rest of the journey, even after my 
mother died. Several of our neighbors took my 
little brothers and sisters before they were sent to 
different parts of the country. I lost sight of them 
and I have never seen them to this day. 

My father died in the war, fighting for a flag that 
was not his own. But perhaps I shall be able to 
serve the flag which Rabbi Yossel gave me on 
Simchath Torah. 


CHANUKAH 

THE FEAST OF LIGHTS 


Chanukah is the mid-winter festival of the Jewish 
people. In early times the Jew, like other people living 
in a primitive or half-civilized state, rejoiced to see the 
return of the longer days during December. Living 
in their frail shelters which scarcely protected them 
against the biting cold, ancient peoples learned to dread 
the freezing months of famine and darkness. When the 
winter solstice came they celebrated the hope of warm 
and bright days by building great bonfires like so many 
tiny suns blazing on earth; some celebrations consisted 
of torchlight processions. Then the German people and 
later their descendants in England and America feasted, 
burning tapers upon pine trees, and burning great Yule 
logs to celebrate their mid-winter or Yuletide feast. 

For ages the Jewish people have ushered in their 
Feast of Lights with tiny tapers flashing in the Meno- 
rah. But to the Jew the festival is more than a celebra¬ 
tion of the victory of light over darkness; Chanukah 
spells to his mind the triumph of right over evil, the 
worship of the one God superseding the pagan beliefs 
of the nations which have persecuted the Jew. It has 
become more than a nature holiday; it is the memorial 
feast of the first heroes and martyrs who ever died for 
religious liberty. 

The Maccabees who fought upon the battlefield and 

55 


56 


IN MANY LANDS 


the no less heroic Hannah and her sons, types of un¬ 
numbered nameless Jews of their day, were the very 
first men and women in the history of the world who 
were willing to suffer for the sake of their religion. 
Rejecting the sensuous pagan worship forced upon 
them by their Syrian conqueror, Antiochus, the Jews 
waged a long and unequal war against their oppressors, 
at the end reentering in triumph the Temple at Jeru¬ 
salem which the Syrians had polluted with their heathen 
ceremonies. 

Then they celebrated the first feast of Chanukah—or 
rededication. The soldiers cleansed the Temple, which 
was garlanded and decorated for the great day of re¬ 
joicing. But no oil, save that polluted by the enemy, 
could be found to light the sacred Menorah. Messen¬ 
gers were immediately sent to procure pure oil, but 
meanwhile a cruse of oil, still sealed and unpolluted, 
was discovered in the Temple. The Menorah was 
lighted and burned for eight whole days until the mes¬ 
sengers returned with fresh oil. Today the Feast of 
Chanukah is eight days long in memory of the miracle 
of the little cruse of oil and the first feast of rededi¬ 
cation. 

Every year at Chanukah the Jew lit a Menorah in his 
window that the whole world might know of his ancient 
victory; the first night only one candle was lighted, the 
second two, and so on until the whole eight burned 
together with their servant light, the Shammas; for, 
said the rabbis, the lights must be kindled in increasing 
order as the Jew should increase in holiness. Often 
there were torchlight processions, while in Venice the 
gondolas of the Jews were decorated with lanterns in 
honor of the feast. 

loday Jewish boys and girls keep their mid-winter 


CHANUKAH 


57 


feast of light at approximately the same time as their 
Christian playmates celebrate their Christmas holidays. 
Instead of a lighted Christmas tree, Jewish children 
kindle the tapers in their Menorahs, many of them of 
beautiful design, such as the craftsmen of the Middle 
Ages fashioned for their people. Some of us treasure 
Menorahs wrought in the Bezalel School in Palestine, 
where today Jewish artists again dream of serving 
their people even as a beauty-loving lad did long ago 
in far-away Prague when he designed the Menorah of 
Remembrance. 



JOSEPH’S CANDLE 

We lit the lights for Chanukah , 
Sister and Son and I; 

’Twas twilight and the baby stars 
Were peeping from the sky. 

Said little Sister as she watched 
Her candle’s yellow flare: 

“I wonder if our Joseph keeps 
A Chanukah up thereJ 

Son’s eyes shone clear as taper’s 
light: 

“Why, brother isn’t far. 

It’s Chanukah in heaven now 
And Joseph lights his star!” 


58 






























THE 

MENORAH OF REMEMBRANCE 

A Story of Chanukah in Bohemia 


The neighbors of old Rabbi Samuel sometimes 
doubted his piety for he was so unlike the other 
pious Jews who lived huddled together in Prague’s 
narrow ghetto hundreds of years ago. True, he 
was a man of great learning and even those who 
criticized him the most never hesitated to go to him 
when puzzled over a ritual question; he kept all the 
commandments, the fast days and the holydays; his 
hand was always stretched out to the poor and needy. 
Yet he often strayed away into a world of his own 
making and those who knew and loved him best 
could not help but look upon him as something of 
a stranger and a sinner in Israel. 

Those were bitter days for the sons of Israel; 
they knew the bitterness of dwelling in a strange 
land, surrounded by those of another faith, who, if 
they did not hate them, did not understand the Jews, 
and refused to think of them as brothers. So they 
lived more and more apart from the rest of the 
world; not only the heavy ghetto gates shut them 
off from their Christian neighbors of the city of 

Prague; a hundred different laws and customs made 

59 


60 


IN MANY LANDS 


friendship between the two people seem an impos¬ 
sible thing to everyone except such dreamers as old 
Rabbi Samuel and later his little grandson, Sholem. 

For Rabbi Samuel was a man with a heart large 
enough to love the whole world, even those who 
hated him and his people. He loved not only men, 
but even the stray dogs which followed him down 
the street whenever he walked abroad as though 
they divined his friendship, even the shy brown birds 
that nested in the eaves and the flowers that grew 
in the fields beyond the ghetto in the springtime. 
He called these creatures of the sky and earth his 
little brothers; some said he actually talked to the 
birds and understood their language as Solomon, 
the wise king, had done in days long ago. 

The old man used to take his grandson on his 
walks through the fields and forests and talk to him 
of many things. Sholem was the son of Rabbi 
Samuel’s daughter who had died when he was still 
a very small child; soon his father had followed her 
and the boy had gone to live with his grandfather in 
the little book-lined room the learned Rabbi called 
his home. It was just like so many other ghetto 
rooms, dark and dingy, with Hebrew books along the 
walls; but on the table stood a vessel filled with field 
flowers as long as the summer lasted, and near the 
window a wood-bird sang from its twisted willow 
cage. 

One day when Sholem was only five years old he 
sat by the table rolling between his hands a bit of 
clay he had picked from the roadside. Suddenly he 
ran to his grandfather and laid upon his lap a deli- 


THE MENORAH OF REMEMBRANCE 61 


cately wrought flower—such a flower as those in 
the earthen vessel before him. “Grandfather,” he 
said in a voice that sounded a little frightened, “I 
can make flowers—see!” and pointed to the little 
flower of clay. 

For a moment the old man said nothing. He 
knew the horror pious Jews of his day felt for 
what they considered the arts of the heathen; not 
only did they remember the Biblical command to 
refrain from making images, but they associated all 
statues and pictures with the figures and paintings 
which filled the churches of their persecutors or 
adorned their palaces. Yet Rabbi Samuel did not 
have it in his heart to order the boy to destroy the 
beautiful thing he had made. 

He only bade him put it away and not to boast 
of his skill to his fellows in the Cheder, lest his 
teacher punish him for creating forbidden objects. 
And the next day when the boy modeled the wood- 
bird that sang near the window and brought it for 
his grandfather to see, the old man instead of re¬ 
proving and warning him, praised him for his work. 
For it was really beautiful and Rabbi Samuel, al¬ 
though a learned and pious Jew, loved all beautiful 
things and could not despise the artist’s gift that God 
had bestowed upon little Sholem. 

Again he bade the boy keep his skill a secret; but 
he encouraged him to model all the beautiful things 
he saw about him when they walked past the ghetto 
gates into the sunshine of the open fields. He taught 
the boy to notice the beauty of the white mountains 
of clouds that floated above their heads, the dignity 


62 


IN MANY LANDS 


of the great trees, their many-colored leaves. At 
night he often bade him come to the window to look 
at the soft beauty of the moon or the radiance of 
the shining stars, until the boy loved beauty more 
than anything else in the world and longed with all 
his heart to catch the fleeting loveliness of the things 
he saw about him and imprison them forever in the 
clay he could shape so skilfully. 

But when Sholem was almost thirteen, a chance 
boast made to some schoolfellow betrayed him. He 
was summoned before the elders of his people and 
ordered to bring forth the images he had made. 
And when these pious men in Israel saw what he 
had done they destroyed all the lovely forms Sholem 
had created and threatened him with punishment if 
he should again transgress the Law. 

For days Sholem mourned and could not be com¬ 
forted. But his gentle old grandfather at last de¬ 
vised a plan which should not offend the elders, yet 
would bring peace to the boy’s troubled spirit. He 
took Sholem to Michael the goldsmith and bade him 
teach the boy his trade. Sholem proved a docile 
scholar, and, almost before he was aware that his 
pupil had outstripped the master, Michael was en¬ 
trusting to the lad his choicest commissions, candle¬ 
sticks for the Sabbath and cups for the wine of bless¬ 
ing and great silver plates to be used on the Seder 
table. For the boy was a true artist and once having 
learned to work with metal instead of clay he was 
able to devise objects of rare beauty; now he no 
longer feared to speak of his art, for it was praised 
from one end of the ghetto to the other, and the 


THE MENORAH OF REMEMBRANCE 


63 


most pious Jews used the work of his hands when 
they served God in their homes or in the syna¬ 
gogue. 

Now it happened that when Rabbi Samuel was 
but a youth, a nobleman of Prague had done him 
a great wrong. Strange to tell, instead of laughing 
at the pain and dishonor he had brought to a de¬ 
spised Jew, the nobleman, perhaps touched by 
Samuel’s gentle spirit, had given him a rich gift as 
though seeking to erase with gold the memory of 
his insult. Rabbi Samuel had continued to live in 
uncomplaining poverty, often sharing his last crust 
with one poorer than he. But he never touched the 
nobleman’s gold for himself nor even gave it away 
as alms. Perhaps he felt it was so dishonored that 
not even the gratitude of those who received his 
bounty could take away its stain. 

He was now a very old man, too feeble to leave 
his bed even to go to the synagogue, but he did not 
need to touch the almost forgotten hoard to supply 
his wants, for Sholem, now a youth of eighteen, was 
the master of his trade and did all he could to bring 
his grandfather comfort in his last days. At last 
Rabbi Samuel grew so feeble that he no longer raised 
his head; sometimes he lay for hours like one who 
sleeps and Sholem, watching over him, often feared 
he would never wake. But one day at sunset the 
old scholar opened his eyes and smiled upon the 
boy. 

“I am going to die,” he told Sholem, “and I am 
not sorry, for I have lived a long time and all those 
I love, save you, have gone before me.” His eyes 


64 


IN MANY LANDS 


wandered through the little window toward a bit 
of sunset sky he could just glimpse over the high 
roofs of the neighboring houses. “The world has 
been very beautiful to me,” he said at last, and he 
recited the prayer written for the pious Jew who 
sees something lovely in God's universe and thanks 
Him for His goodness. Then his eyes wandered to 
the earthen vessel upon the table; it was filled with 
bright yellow flowers and leaves gay with the tints 
of autumn. “Everything has been so beautiful,” he 
said, “so very beautiful, but I could only look upon 
the skies and fields, yet did not have the power to 
show others—except you!—how beautiful God has 
made His world. I was not an artist and I could 
not make anything beautiful to live long after I 
myself am dead.” 

Then—pausing often because of his weakness— 
he told Sholem of the gold the nobleman had given 
him so long ago that its existence had grown to be 
little more than a legend of the ghetto. “I have 
never spent one coin,” said Rabbi Samuel, “and if 
you love me as a son should love a father I trust 
that you will keep none of the accursed gold for 
yourself. Yet with it you and I will build ourselves 
a monument much fairer than any yonder in the 
House of Life (the cemetery) to which they will 
soon carry me. We will glorify not ourselves but 
God—we will give His beauty to the men who come 
to the synagogue and find beauty in His holy teach¬ 
ings but not in the world He has created for their 
sakes. I would do this for my brethren because 
I love them. Yea, I have loved all men, even the 


THE MENORAH OF REMEMBRANCE 65 


nobleman who wronged me so bitterly in my youth; 
I will return good for his evil and the gold that he 
gave me will cause those he has never seen to bless 
him for his gift ” 

“What would you have me do, grandfather?” 
asked Sholem. 

Then the old man told him how he could lay hands 
on the gold. “Go and purchase with it any materials 
you desire,” he commanded, “the finest, as though 
you would fashion a king’s crown. And make a 
Menorah for our synagogue and put into it your 
whole soul, all the beauty you would have wrought 
into your statues and images had you been born 
among the heathen. Do not hasten and spoil your 
work; but if it is done by Chanukah I shall be well 
pleased. Then have it placed before the altar of our 
synagogue and when our people see the eight lights 
in their golden sockets their hearts will be uplifted 
through the beauty you and I have given them and 
they will praise God with all their souls.” 

So the old rabbi told Sholem and a little later he 
died. And as soon as the days of mourning were 
over, Sholem went into Prague and spent the noble¬ 
man’s gold on all the gold and fine metals his heart 
desired; after that he neither came to the work¬ 
shop of Michael the goldsmith to help him at his 
trade, nor did he take time to hold speech with his 
friends; and although he worked late into the night 
he often rose before dawn. White, haggard, sleep¬ 
less, yet happier than he had ever been before, 
Sholem put his whole life’s craving for beauty into 
the Menorah that he made as his grandfather had 


66 


IN MANY LANDS 


commanded him. He worked like a man under the 
whip of a taskmaster, for he had resolved that by 
Chanukah he would place it upon the altar of the 
synagogue. 

The Menorah became the talk of the entire ghetto; 
its fame spread even beyond the ghetto walls and 
the merchant men of Prague who met the Jews in 
the market place began to gossip of the candlestick 
which rumor held to be worth a king’s ransom. 
Some said it was adorned with jewels; others whis¬ 
pered that Rabbi Samuel had possessed secret wis¬ 
dom and had bequeathed his witchcraft to his grand¬ 
son, empowering Sholem to endow the Menorah with 
magic properties. So the wildest rumors spread, but 
Sholem did naught to deny them, for he was too 
busy with his Menorah. 

In Prague dwelt three men, soldiers of fortune, 
men who had often sold their swords and their 
honor for gold and feared neither the law of man 
nor the vengeance of God. And these ruffians, hear¬ 
ing of the Menorah which was shortly to be placed 
in the synagogue where Rabbi Samuel had wor¬ 
shipped for so many years, planned between them¬ 
selves to steal it and sell it either for its precious 
material or to some art-loving duke or prince. So 
just before Chanukah they secreted themselves in the 
ghetto before the heavy gates were closed, and while 
the Jews of Prague were sleeping crept into Sholem’s 
house. 

A single taper burned in Sholem’s room, but to¬ 
night the dim light was ample for the artist, for his 
work was over. Upon the table stood a great Meno- 


THE MENORAH OF REMEMBRANCE 67 

rah, curiously wrought with the symbols of Israel, 
the shield which is David’s and the two lions and a 
scroll work of vines such as hung above the door 
of the great Temple at Jerusalem. And before the 
unlighted Menorah stood Sholem, weak from fasting 
and want of sleep, white and wan as a man who 
sees visions. Then he turned from surveying the 
work into which he had put his soul and looked into 
the faces of the three who stood before him with 
drawn daggers. 

Perhaps he never dreamed of resisting them, for 
he was as gentle as his grandfather had been. He 
only threw his arms about the Menorah and held it 
close as a mother would protect her child. When 
they pulled him away, he did not strike back; only 
lay very still upon the floor while the bird in the 
willow cage at the window, wakened by the noise, 
broke into frightened chirping. 

One of the robbers bent over the prostrate man 
and turned him over roughly; he drew back in terror. 
Sholem had fasted too long, had worked too un¬ 
ceasingly ; the shock and the sudden terror had been 
too much for his tired heart and he was dead. 

The three who had so often looked on death and 
violence stood afraid, for they remembered strange 
tales of the marvelous Menorah and the dead man 
who had made it. One put out his hand to touch 
the huge candlestick; then drew back afraid. Hardly 
daring to breathe they stole down the winding stairs 
and left the artist and his life-work together. 

Those who found Sholem in the morning mar¬ 
veled at the manner of his death. But one of the 


68 


IN MANY LANDS 


robbers, being hanged shortly after for conspiracy, 
confessed among his other crimes that he had been 
one of the three who sought to rob the Jews of their 
treasure. So from that day no man in Prague dared 
even to think of laying his hands upon the Menorah 
which Sholem had made. 

It was placed before the altar and every Chanukah 
pious hands lighted it with the festal candles which 
tell of the Maccabees and their struggle against the 
Greeks. And every year just before the Feast of 
Lights two tall tapers are burned in that synagogue, 
from the sunset prayer far into the night. They 
are the Yahrzeit, or memorial lights, which recall 
to memory the lives of Rabbi Samuel and Sholem, 
his grandson, who gave the Menorah to the great 
synagogue of Prague. 


PURIM 

THE FEAST OF LOTS 


Purim, which is said to have derived its name from 
the Persian word Pur, meaning a lot, is a carnival holi¬ 
day of the Jewish year. Although it is a minor holiday, 
it is one of the most widely and heartily celebrated of 
all the festivals. Adopting many features of the bois¬ 
terous carnivals of the European nations among which 
the Jews were scattered, the day became a time for 
merry-making and revelry; no matter how oppressed 
and embittered the lot of the Jew in exile, he could still 
laugh and frolic like a child on Purim. 

Purim commemorates the deliverance of the Jews 
when as exiles in Persia they were threatened with 
destruction by their arch-enemy, Haman, the favorite 
of the king. But due to the loyalty of the Jew, Mor- 
decai, and the bravery of his cousin, Esther, the Jews 
were saved while Haman suffered the very fate he had 
planned for his foe. But it is not only the story of the 
Persian deliverance that Purim recalls to the student of 
Jewish history; again and again has the Jew faced 
destruction, and again and again has a deliverer arisen 
to save him from death. Esther pleading before the 
king for her despised and helpless people becomes 
the prototype of the undying devotion of the Jew who 
is willing to risk all for his people. 

But although a feature of the Purim celebration is 

69 


70 


IN MANY LANDS 


the reading of the Megilla (scroll) of Esther in the 
synagogue, the greater part of the festival is given over 
to merry-making. Even the synagogue service is robbed 
of its decorum and in many cases the small boys 
write the name of Haman upon their shoe-soles and 
stamp loudly and shake rattles whenever his name or 
the names of his wicked sons are read during the nar¬ 
rative. Many merry songs have been composed for 
this holiday, and for once the Jew forgets his usual 
sobriety and permits unlimited drinking at the Seudah 
(banquet). 

In the Middle Ages one of the features of the car¬ 
nival was a great bonfire over which Haman was burned 
in effigy, a custom reflected in the quaint ginger-bread 
Hamans and Hamantaschen (three-cornered cookies) 
which are still baked on Purim. Gifts (Shalach Monos) 
were exchanged among friends and alms distributed 
among the poor. During the carnival men and women 
were allowed to change garments with each other; 
masked and in grotesque garments they went merry¬ 
making through the streets. Often a group of these 
maskers performed a rude, impromptu Purimspiel, 
telling the story of the holiday in burlesque form. In 
most of these sketches Haman ceased to be the terrible 
villain of the Bible narrative and became little more 
than a blundering clown whose plans were always 
defeated. 

This custom of presenting Purim plays has never 
died out and until this day Jewish children retell in 
their make-believe characters the heroic story of their 
ancestors. Purim may be said to be the players’ holi¬ 
day; for its story is but a type of the colorful drama 
Israel has presented with simple heroism upon every 
stage of the history of the world. 


UNMASKED! 


Too long hath Israel wandered in disguise, 

A Purim player in a ragged cloak; 

His shoulders cringing ’neath the ageless yoke 
Of universal torments, hatreds, lies! 

Furtive, and fleeing as a coward flies, 

While mocking enemies their judgment spoke: 
f( The lamp is quenched, the sword of Judah broke, 
And Israel in his ruined Temple dies.” 

Now Israel with laughing flings aside 

The beggars rags and shows himself a king; 
Upon the earth's high places may he ride, 

His ancient valleys in young triumph sing; 

The age-long, hateful masquerade is o'er: 

The beggar rides from Zion's hill once more. 



71 

















THE PURIM PLAYERS 

A Story of Purim in Germany 

The little daughter of the house sat with her hands 
folded in her lap, her eyes diligently studying the 
pattern of the wool flowers worked upon her black 
apron, taking no part in the conversation of her 
elders. She was a slim girl of fifteen, with heavy, 
dark braids and thoughtful eyes, a child who flushed 
modestly when a stranger spoke to her, a shy little 
maiden who sometimes fell a-dreaming as she moved 
about her household tasks. She was very glad to 
rest now while she sat and listened to her elders in 
respectful silence as a well-bred Jewish daughter was 
taught to do in those far-off-days, before Heine 
penned his love lyrics and Napoleon thundered across 
the world. For she was very tired. She had helped 
her mother clean the house for Yomtov until it fairly 
shone; there had been poppy seed mixture to pre¬ 
pare and pastry to bake and baskets to fill for one’s 
neighbors and the poor. Now, wearing her best 
dress of warm scarlet and the little black satin apron 
worked with woolen flowers, she sat primly near her 
parents, half wishing she might frolic once more 
with her two young brothers and little cousins who 

were romping in the kitchen. But Reba remembered 

72 



THE PURIM PLAYERS 


73 


that she was quite grown up, a bride-maiden, in 
fact; and a girl who is considered old enough to be 
married should prefer to listen to her father jesting 
with Uncle Heinrich rather than steal Hamantaschen 
from the pantry or whirl a foolish Dreidel. Besides, 
her father had ordered the Purim players to perform 
for his guests that very afternoon and she was to see 
her first real Purim play. Not a silly Purimspiel 
played by her brothers and the other Cheder boys 
dressed in their mother’s old clothes, but a real 
drama given by actors from Frankfort. She sent 
a glance of shy admiration toward her father—no 
wonder he held his head so high and talked so loudly. 
The most influential Jew of the community—after 
the rabbi, of course—and rich enough to send for the 
Frankfort Purim players! 

Across from Reba sat her cousin Jacob, her senior 
by about a year, a thin, stooped lad with peering, 
shortsighted eyes. When Reba had last seen her 
cousin he was only seven, a laughing, merry rogue 
who had run races with her and stolen cherries from 
her father’s garden. Now he seemed a stranger, 
very much older than her twelve-year-old brother, a 
half-grown man who stammered when he spoke her 
name. Perhaps she was in awe of him because 
Uncle Heinrich had boasted so loudly of his son’s 
standing in the Yeshibah of his native town; Jacob, 
he said, had a head of iron; if every Jew sucked up 
learning like Jacob (as a hungry child takes the 
breast, said Uncle Heinrich), the Messiah would not 
be so long in coming. At which Reba’s own father 
had nodded approvingly, adding that any man might 


74 


IN MANY LANDS 


consider even a liberal dowry too small for such a 
son-in-law. Another time—perhaps before Uncle 
Heinrich returned home, they would discuss the 
matter; this, with a side-long glance at Reba, who 
flushed burningly beneath his kindly smiling eyes. 
For she had heard her mother gossiping to the neigh¬ 
bors of a “fine match” and her brothers had teased 
her a little about Jacob. 

Waiting for the Purim players and thinking of her 
father’s meaningful glance, Reba felt hot with shame, 
although she did not know why. She knew all 
Jewish girls married if they were good and virtuous 
and their fathers were able to give them dowries. 
And she realized that she was a little girl no longer; 
her own mother had gone under the canopy before 
she was fifteen. But standing on the threshold of 
life, the girl grew afraid. There were her house¬ 
hold tasks, her visits and walks with her girl friends, 
hours with her mother over needlework, her little 
room with its narrow bed and the white curtains at 
the window. How could she bear to change all this 
for the unknown thing they called marriage—cut¬ 
ting off her hair and sitting with the married women 
instead of the young girls and growing shrill-voiced 
and ever anxious like her mother. She patted her 
long, dark braids and shivered a little. 

Reba started half guiltily from her day-dreaming 
as a shout from the kitchen told her the Purim 
Players had come. Now she was a little girl again 
and wanted to join her brothers that she might see 
the strange guests at once; she half rose, but her 
mother shook her head with a frown and Reba sank 


THE PURIM PLAYERS 


75 


back into her chair. But her cheeks flushed with 
excitement and her hands plucked nervously at the 
gay flowers embroidered on her little black apron, 
for she was impatient for the play to begin. 

Now some of the neighbors entered, all in their 
holiday clothes, all somewhat boisterous with the 
wine and merriment of the merriest of Jewish festi¬ 
vals, as they slipped into the chairs Reba and her 
mother placed for them. The women looked her 
over with frank approval and several of them loudly 
complimented Reba’s mother on her fine bride- 
maiden. Reba knew that Jacob heard them also 
and felt his abstracted, shortsighted eyes upon her. 
She turned almost as scarlet as the ribbon bound 
about her glossy braids and was glad when a pound¬ 
ing at the door announced that the players had 
donned their robes and were ready to enter the 
room. 

They came prancing upon the stage, the great rug 
with its circle of eager spectators. There was a king 
in all the glory of his scarlet robe and shining crown; 
and Haman, now terrible and haughty in his rage, 
and now playing foolish tricks which made the audi¬ 
ence roar with laughter; and Esther, a slender youth 
in a trailing, purple gown and long veil, very lady¬ 
like with his mincing steps and high voice. And 
there was Mordecai. . . . 

The Purim Players told the old story in a new 
way. Ahasuerus forgot he was a mighty king long 
enough to sing a merry song; Haman ceased plotting 
as he rattled off a string of foolish stories and tried 
to shame the company with his wit, jesting now with 


76 


IN MANY LANDS 


this one and now with that, even telling the rabbi 
he had seen a much longer and finer beard than his 
in Frankfort. And the rabbi laughed as heartily as 
the rest, for it was Purim when even the old and the 
wise are merry and a Jew forgets to be sorrowful. 
Then Esther danced as gracefully as any maiden in 
spite of his entangling purple train; growing sud¬ 
denly serious to listen to the pleading of Mordecai. 
And then there was Mordecai. . . . 

For days afterwards Reba’s little brothers bragged 
to their mates in Cheder of the glories of the king’s 
robes and Haman’s pompous strutting and his comic 
songs. But Reba never spoke of the play to any 
one—not even to Jacob, whom she married. Though 
in the hard days that followed Purim, the girl had 
only to close her eyes to see the face of the lad who 
played Mordecai, a graceful, full-lipped boy with a 
rich voice. She did not know whether he played well 
or ill, she was too lost in dreams to follow his high- 
flown phrases. She just looked upon his face and 
the flower of her girlhood unfolded and she was a 
woman. Her vague dreams throbbed with life. She 
had never read a novel or heard a light love song; 
but suddenly she understood why Rachel in the old 
story had been willing to follow her lover into a 
distant land. There was a strange throbbing in her 
throat; she felt it swelling against the gold chain 
her uncle had brought her for a Purim gift. 

While the guests applauded, Reba followed the 
maid servant into the kitchen. She helped her serve 
the players with cakes and wine, she stood wistfully 


THE PURIM PLAYERS 


77 


by when her little brothers and cousins crowded 
about the strangers, examining their robes, begging 
them for stories of their adventures. The players 
were only too willing to talk and their stories held 
the youngsters spellbound; and he who had played 
Mordecai talked oftenest of all, telling brave stories 
of great cities and lonely forests, of country fairs 
and king’s palaces they had passed in their journeys. 

“I’d like to be a Purim player!” cried the youngest 
cousin, and the others laughed. All but Reba. She 
said nothing. It would not have seemed modest for 
her to talk with these strange men; even though she 
was silent, she feared that at any moment her mother 
would call to her to join the older guests. But a 
strange look came into her dreamy eyes and she saw 
herself wandering along the sun-flecked roads with 
this boy player in a new world far away from house¬ 
hold cares and cramped corners. And she would go 
barefoot as her little brothers did in summer and 
never, never cut her hair. Her mother called her, 
rather sharply, and she hurried into the other room. 
Jacob still sat with the older folks. He did not look 
as though he had cared for the Purim play. 

When Reba married Jacob she was too busy with 
her house and sewing and the children to dream any 
longer. And when she had an idle moment now and 
then she used to sit with folded hands, her eyes 
upon her apron, thinking of nothing. She had for¬ 
gotten how to dream, so she never wove any more 
foolish stories about the lad who played Mordecai. 
If you had told her that, coming to her when he did, 


78 


IN MANY LANDS 


he had meant youth and love and romance, she would 
have looked a little puzzled—and, maybe, a little 
shamed. For what has a virtuous Jewish woman to 
do with romance—even on Purim, when everything 
is topsy-turvy and one is allowed to be a little 
foolish! 


PASSOVER 

THE FEAST OF FREEDOM 

Passover, the spring festival of the Jewish people, 
celebrates at the same time the birth of a free nation 
and the return of spring. The Jew, like all other people 
close to the soil, celebrates the coming of the spring 
season after the winter’s cold; the Greek in his festi¬ 
vals to commemorate the return of Persephone to 
Demeter, the Earth Mother; the early Saxon in his 
holiday in honor of the goddess of spring, Oestra, 
whose name has come down to us in the Christian feast 
of Easter. At this last festival, the egg from which the 
live chicken was to come, symbolic of the birth of living 
vegetation from the frozen ground, became a symbol 
of resurrection and survives today in the Easter egg. 
For the same reason the egg was used to represent the 
sacrificial offering at the Temple in earlier days and 
is still used at the Passover feast of the Jew. 

In the earliest times it is very probable that the spring 
festivals of the Jew were extremely simple, perhaps 
nothing more than village dances and songs and rural 
merry-making at the sheep-shearing. Later, in the 
time of the kings, it became obligatory for every male 
to go up to Jerusalem with his wheat offering, and Pass- 
over became the first of the three great pilgrim feasts, 
when the farmers of Palestine traveled in gala proces¬ 
sion with their families and their servants that they 
might eat their paschal lamb within the wads of the 
City of David. 


79 


80 


IN MANY LANDS 


But Passover is more than a celebration of the pass¬ 
ing of winter into spring; the Jew sees in the holiday 
an everlasting memorial of the miracle whereby his 
people passed from slavery into freedom. Under their 
shepherd leader, Moses, a slave nation left their shackles 
behind them and journeyed forth to find the Promised 
Land; no longer slaves to Pharaoh, they pledged them¬ 
selves to serve the God who had granted them life and 
freedom. And Moses laid upon them the command¬ 
ment that they should never forget the miracles wrought 
for their deliverance; as they stood with their staves 
in their hands gathered about their tables to eat the 
paschal lamb for the first Passover feast, he bade them 
repeat the ceremonial meal year after year, that the 
children of Israel might gather every Passover to learn 
anew the story of their escape from the land of 
bondage. 

And so year after year the Seder is repeated in the 
Jewish home, the symbols upon the table each com¬ 
memorative of the ancient story. The Matzah speaks 
of the unleavened bread the fugitives prepared in their 
haste, the Charoses of the mortar made by the weary 
Hebrew slaves, the bitter herbs of the bitterness of 
slavery. Prominent upon the table is a large goblet 
filled with wine for Elijah the prophet, who, legend 
tells, visits every Jewish home on Passover eve and for 
whom the door is left open; although it is more than 
likely that the open door often signified welcome not 
only for the Jew too poor to enjoy a Seder of his own 
but even for the Jew who had renounced his Judaism, 
yet felt drawn back to his people on this sacred festival 
of freedom and longed to return to them as a guest at 
the Passover table. 




THE HILLS ABOUT JERUSALEM, 

Passover, 1918, after the Deliverance by 
the British Army 

The hills about Jerusalem, 

God's sentinels are they 
To guard the place of David 
And keep her foes away. 

When spring was fair in Palestine, 
Our fathers came of yore 
To keep the ancient Paschal feast — 
But now they come no more. 

The hills about Jerusalem, 

They saw our pain and shame, 

As to the place of David 
Our mocking foemen came. 

Our city lay all desolate, 

Gone was our Temple's pride; 

Yet, “Next year in Jerusalem,” 

With broken hearts we cried. 

81 



















The centuries passed; our Seder cups 
Were salt with exile tears, 

And yet we smiled, “Jerusalem!” 
Through all the bitter years. 

The hills about Jerusalem, 

At last they see the day, 

When messengers of God ride forth 
To take her shame away. 

We cross our hills that longed for us 
Through all the exiled years: 

And, “This year in Jerusalem,” 

We murmur through our tears. 











THE UNWELCOME GUEST 

A Story of Passover in Bohemia 


Spring came very late that year. In all the city 
of Prague no man remembered so cold an April, an 
April of chill winds and little sunshine, even flurries 
of snow that toward sunset grew into a steady down¬ 
fall, covering the shivering trees and hushing the 
narrow streets with a soft, white blanket. Courtiers 
and market people and ragged beggars, meeting in 
the great market place of the city, swore that never 
had there been such a spring time; behind the high 
gates of the ghetto, the Jews, who had just swept and 
purified their houses for the Passover, warmed their 
hands before their grateful fires ere they donned 
their white garments and sat down at the Seder 
table to keep the ancient feast of their fathers. 

The poor folks among the ghetto dwellers, and 
there were many (for the days were cruel days for 
the Jew, and many knew not how to earn their bread 
because of the hard laws which met them at every 
turn), shivered in their rags or the garments some 
generous soul had given them in honor of the festi¬ 
val. But they knew that on one night at least they 

would not be hungry, for the rich men of the ghetto 

83 


84 


IN MANY LANDS 


of Prague had given Matzos and fruit and fowl and 
sweet wine to every man of family that he might 
keep the Passover and sit at the head of his own 
table on Seder night like a prince in Israel. And 
those who were alone in the world, orphans, or young 
scholars, or the very old who had lost all their kin, 
these were made welcome in the homes of their more 
fortunate brethren. Treated as honored guests, they 
sat in their places before the fair white cloths spread 
with the symbols of the feast, and repeated in their 
turn the joyful words with which the Jew greets the 
holiday of freedom for his ancestors. So in the 
homes of all the Jews of the ghetto of Prague, even 
the very poorest, the weary ones of Israel found 
peace and plenty for a single night and sang with joy¬ 
ful voices of the return to Zion. 

But in the house of Menachem, the rich money¬ 
lender, there was no guest. Perhaps if the hard 
laws of his day had allowed Menachem to follow 
some other calling, his heart would not have grown 
as hard and cold as the yellow pieces of metal which 
he wrung from the hands of his debtors. Gold had 
grown to be his God, and he loved it better than 
even his wife and his children, his son whom they 
called “the little scholar” from one end of the ghetto 
to the other, his three fair daughters, the eldest a 
girl almost ready to stand beneath the Chuppah, so 
lovely a maiden that it was more than her father’s 
dowry which brought many suitors for her hand to 
the house of Reuben, the marriage broker. 

Tonight they sat around the Seder table, Mena¬ 
chem and his family, and the festal tapers shone 


THE UNWELCOME GUEST 


85 


upon rare linen and almost priceless silverware and 
the high golden cup filled with wine and set apart 
for Elijah the prophet. Legend has it that on Seder 
night the prophet wanders from house to house, 
pausing a moment beside every table where Jews 
gather to keep the Passover. So a goblet of wine 
is set aside for him and an empty chair placed be¬ 
side the chair of the master of the house that the 
prophet may find a welcome whenever he may come. 
And not only little children, who with shining eyes 
hear the tale of the deliverance of Egypt, hope to 
see the good prophet enter the door kept open for his 
coming. Often their elders wait also, their tired 
eyes alight with hope, trusting to see his face, for 
have they not long believed that after Elijah comes 
the Messiah himself, he who will surely redeem 
Israel for all time to come? 

So the house of Menachem, money-lender of 
Prague, was duly cleansed and garnished for the 
festival; the table was set for the feast, and around 
it sat his wife and children decked in rich gar¬ 
ments, for he was a man of great wealth. But no 
guest sat at his table, for Menachem thought that 
he had done more than his duty. Had he not given 
a handful of his cherished gold to make cheer for 
the Passover for those who could not buy Matzos 
and wine for themselves ? 

Menachem sat upon the heaped cushions of his 
great carved chair and opened his Haggadah, beauti¬ 
ful with many scenes of the Passover story, that he 
might begin the service. And the youngest child, a 
girl of four with her mother’s tender eyes and gentle 


86 


IN MANY LANDS 


voice, asked him: “Father, why does the empty 
chair stand at your side?” 

“We always place a chair at the Passover board 
for the Prophet Elijah,” answered Menachem. 

“And the needy and the homeless that they may 
also come in and eat and be satisfied,” murmured 
his wife. 

But Menachem did not hear her. He was already 
reciting the portion that ushers in the service for 
Seder night. 

The evening passed. Outside, the wind—there 
was never such a wind before in April—blew great 
whorls of snow against the panes. But within the 
house of Menachem the fire burned brightly and the 
candles shone upon the table piled high with rich 
food and rare wines. Then came the moment for 
the youngest child, now grown drowsy, but still 
eager to do her part, to open the door. She flung 
it wide, rubbing her eyes sleepily; then turned to 
her father, her voice ringing with joy. 

“Father—Elijah has come!” she trebled. 

But Menachem frowned in his beard; he shook his 
head almost angrily. At the door stood a man white- 
haired and bent and broken, leaning on a traveler’s 
staff. Snow glistened on his moldy fur turban and 
on his ragged cloak. A beggar, whining and im¬ 
portunate, come to disturb them at their feast! 
Menachem spoke harshly. 

“Who are you and why do you come?” he asked, 
bidding his wife who had already risen to keep 
her place. 

The unwelcome guest did not answer. He only 


THE UNWELCOME GUEST 


87 


shook his head sadly and pointed one trembling, 
gnarled hand toward the empty chair. 

“He wants to sit in Elijah’s chair,” cried the 
youngest child. 

Her father laughed shortly. “We have no room 
for beggars,” he said. “Go to the rabbi’s house. I 
have given my share that no Jew need go hungry to¬ 
night nor want for shelter.” 

The stranger stood silent, his back bent beneath 
a heavy burden he carried, which seemed like a 
peddler’s pack. 

Menachem’s wife pulled the sleeve of his white 
robe. “Tonight we dare not turn a stranger away,” 
she whispered. “Bid him welcome that he may sit 
beside us and share our Passover.” 

“Be off!” and Menachem turned angrily upon the 
visitor. “Now, children, let us go on with the 
service,” he told his daughters and his son, striving 
to speak calmly. But he was much troubled in his 
heart, for the look the stranger had given him had 
shaken his very soul. Then the old wanderer had 
turned away, plodding from the room weary and 
bent low, as though bowed beneath the woes of 
homeless Israel. 

“Menachem,” cried his wife, rising pale and 
frightened, “I cannot let you turn this stranger from 
our hearth. It is Passover and we must open our 
doors to the poor and the homeless.” 

Menachem did not answer. The stranger had 
closed the door softly behind him, yet an icy blast 
seemed to flood the room. The candles upon the 
festal cloth wavered and flickered; the fire blazing 


88 


IN MANY LANDS 


upon the hearth sank to hissing little flames. It was 
as though Winter or Death had come uninvited to 
the feast. 

Menachem turned as white as the shroud-like gar¬ 
ment he wore. In the ghetto it was whispered that 
he was something of a skeptic; but even his bold 
heart quailed as he turned his eyes from the fright¬ 
ened faces of his wife and children toward the 
frost-whitened windowpane which the stranger had 
passed but a moment before. And though he tried 
to laugh, he trembled as the youngest child wailed 
accusingly: “Father, father, it was Elijah you sent 
out into the storm!” 

“Nay, nay, little one,” comforted the mother. 
“Not Elijah, but some poor homeless wanderer we 
must succor for his sake. Make haste, my husband, 
and overtake him and bring him in out of the storm, 
lest this Passover bring us evil instead of good, and 
misfortune will enter the door we have closed upon 
a needy brother.” 

Without a word Menachem went to the door, 
opened it and looked out into the night. The wind 
scourged his face with an icy blast, but he did not 
hesitate. Without a word he plunged into the snow 
that he might overtake the wayfarer and bid him 
welcome to his warm fireside. 

Those who remained about the table dared not 
speak. Was this not the night of miracles for 
Israel; had not father told son for countless genera¬ 
tions that some day the wandering prophet of the 
homeless people would indeed pause beside a Pass- 
over table and drink the wine and leave his blessing 


THE UNWELCOME GUEST 


89 


ere he departed? So they waited in awe and dread 
for Menachem to return with the guest he had sought 
to turn out into the night. 

He came back at last, his hair and beard white 
with snow, his eyes terrible with fear. He said not 
a word and they dared not question him. With 
lips that trembled he sought to read the rest of the 
service; but his shaking hands dropped the richly 
decorated Haggadah and the words seemed to 
strangle him. But his youngest little daughter had 
the courage to climb upon his knee and seek to learn 
what troubled him. 

“Father, father,” she begged, “tell us what you 
saw out in the darkness?” 

And Menachem answered her in a voice ragged 
with fear: “I saw nothing—nothing! The snow is 
deep and my footprints are plain from our door and 
back again. But I saw no footprints where he walked 
away from our door.” 

Then they all fell silent with a great fear, for they 
felt certain that it was no mortal wanderer they had 
turned away from their Seder table. But at last 
MenachenTs wife broke into wailing. 

“Alas!” she cried. “Your hardness of heart has 
at last brought black misfortune upon the heads of 
our innocent children. For you have turned Elijah 
the prophet away and he will surely curse us instead 
of bless.” 

But no misfortune came upon the house of 
Menachem. His son fulfilled the promise of his 
youth and became a scholar famous even in Prague; 
his daughters married worthy husbands and Mena- 


90 


IN MANY LANDS 


chem and his wife lived to bless their children and 
to rejoice in their beauty and piety. Yet Menachem 
never lost the look of a man who fears to look be¬ 
hind as he wanders down a lonely road after sunset. 
Although his wealth increased year after year, he 
was more miserable than the poorest beggar in all 
the ghetto of Prague. And now the poor knew 
him for a friend and never feared to knock upon his 
great, bolted door, knowing that it would be opened 
to them, for Menachem never again turned the needy 
from his doorstep. Nor did he cease to hope that 
the beggar with the pack upon his shoulders would 
come again that he might ask his forgiveness and 
gladden him with his bounty. Especially on Pass- 
over, when Menachem’s haunted eyes turned ever 
to the open door as though he still hoped to see the 
stranger enter and beg for a seat at his table. . . . 
But although he lived to be a very old man, Mena¬ 
chem never saw the wanderer again. 


THE SEPHIRA DAYS OF REMEMBRANCE 


The Sephira days extend from the second day of 
Passover to the first day of Shabuoth, a period of seven 
weeks, and Shabuoth the seventh week is named from 
the Hebrew word for seven and is called the Feast of 
Weeks; while its Greek title, Pentecost, means fifty, 
since Shabuoth falls upon the fiftieth day of the count¬ 
ing of the Omer. 

These fifty days were set aside in ancient Palestine 
for the counting of the Omer, a measure of about seven 
pints of barley, this being the season for reaping the 
barley in the land of Israel. On Shabuoth an offering 
of barley was carried to the Temple as well as the first 
fruits. 

But like so many other Jewish holidays the Sephira 
days are more than the landmark of a pastoral people. 
Just as the Christian church has set aside the beautiful 
festival of All Saints in memory of their dead, the Jew 
has consecrated his Sephira days to the thought of the 
many martyrs who through the persecutions of the cru¬ 
sades gave up their lives for Israel. Each century has 
added new names to the scroll, for in every land 
throughout the ages the Jew has paid for his birthright 
in blood and tears. Now that the Long Night for Judea 
seems to be breaking at last, his rejoicing at the dawn 
is mingled with sorrow for those who, dying for Israel, 
could themselves never die. 

91 



A CITY GATE IN PALESTINE 

I love to dream with eyes half-closed, 
Of cities far away, 

Of home-returning caravans, 

Which, at the dusk of day, 

Move slowly down the dusty road, 

As keen-eyed merchants wait. 

While sunset blossoms like a rose, 
Behind the city's gate. 

The city's gate! it really seems 
That I went there one day, 
Perhaps to purchase and to sell, 

Or watch the children play; 

Or listen to the ancient tales, 

The elders loved to tell; 

Or fill the pitchers for the maids, 

Who gossiped at the well. 

O wretched ones in alien lands, 

To dream is to be strong: 

Though weak, we'll find in dreams 
the path 

Our hearts have known so long; 
The Land of Hope is still our own, 
Where, safe from foeman's hate, 

We'll meet the sons of long ago, 
Within the city's gate. 

92 









THE LONG NIGHT* 

A Story of the Sephira Days in Bohemia 


It was in the days of the Second Crusade, when 
those who journeyed to the Holy Land to fight for 
the Sepulcher traveled along a crimson road and 
every hand seemed to be raised against the Jew. 
Princes who wore the crusader’s cross upon their 
velvet mantles, peasants who lay aside their plough¬ 
shares for consecrated swords, barefoot monks and 
beggars, even little children trudged the long way to 
Palestine and as they went they slew. For many 
believed in their hearts that if they left all they held 
dear to save the Sepulcher of him they worshipped 
from the hands of unbelievers, they should show but 
little mercy to the hated Jews who had brought him 
to his death. 

But in that long night of hatred and persecution, 
good men arose who not only preached the words 
of the Nazarene, but carried his love for all men 
in their hearts. And one was a priest, fearless and 
eager to save the harried ones of Israel. We do not 
know even his name—only that he loved our brethren 
and sought to save them in their need. 


* This story is based on an actual incident during the Second 
Crusade. 

93 



94 


IN MANY LANDS 

In the golden days of Bohemia, the Jews and their 
Christian neighbors had lived at peace with one 
another. There had been friendship and trust be¬ 
tween them until the Crusaders’ pilgrimage of love 
had brought hatred into the pleasant land, and Chris¬ 
tian learned to despise Jew and Jew knew what it 
was to fear Christian. And no men grieved more 
at this division than Rabbi Abram, a gentle old man 
who looked upon all as his brethren, and the keen¬ 
eyed young priest who often visited him to listen to 
his words of learning, and even ate at his table. 

In the house of Rabbi Abram dwelt his grand¬ 
child, a girl of seventeen, Miriam, whose laughter 
made silvery music in the dim room where the old 
rabbi and the young priest often sat together over 
their books. And very often the priest’s eyes fol¬ 
lowed the gleam of her golden hair as she passed 
lightly to and fro on some household task. But they 
seldom spoke, for he seemed to be absorbed in the 
learning of the Hebrews which the rabbi expounded 
to him, and she was a Jewish daughter unaccustomed 
to much speech with men. Yet on the days when 
she was absent, the dim room seemed darker to the 
young priest and he was less likely to linger after 
his lesson was over. 

“Is it true,” Rabbi Abram asked his friend one 
day, “is it true that we Jews must again suffer as in 
the days of our fathers?” He shuddered as he spoke 
for he remembered only too well the horrors of the 
First Crusade. “Will the Church do nothing to 
save us, for we are clean of all wrongdoing in the 
sight of God and men?” 


THE LONG NIGHT 95 

And the priest could only shake his head for his 
heart was heavy with foreboding. 

Nearer and nearer came the red wave of persecu¬ 
tion which threatened to engulf all the helpless ones 
of Israel. The Crusaders swept on, frenzied with 
their lust to torture, to pillage, to slay. Here and 
there a noble of high estate or a powerful church¬ 
man sought to stay the tide, but they were as help¬ 
less as a little child who would drive back the ocean 
with its hand. In every corner of Europe the Jews 
waited shudderingly for death. 

In the house of Rabbi Abram gathered the elders 
of the Jewish community. They had no plan of 
escape, no suggestions for safety. They sat grief- 
stricken and silent, save when this one or that would 
burst out into wailing, whereupon the others would 
sway back and forth in their grief like mourners 
over a grave. Two candles burned upon the table 
where in brighter days Rabbi Abram had studied 
with his friend, the young priest. Now they seemed 
like two ghostly memorial tapers for the dead. 

There was a knock at the door and Miriam, her 
fair face white and grief-stricken, stole softly from 
her corner and moved to open it. A man entered, 
dressed in a dark cloak which completely muffled his 
face. But when he lowered it those who sat about 
the table knew him for the young priest. 

“Sholom Aleichem,” he murmured, even as one 
of them might have done. He came quickly to 
Rabbi Abram’s side and took his hand. “My 
teacher,” he said, “I have dreadful news for you. 
I have learned—no matter how—that when the 


96 


IN MANY LANDS 


Crusaders enter our gates tomorrow they will bat¬ 
ter down your houses until not a stone remains upon 
stone. The bishop would grant you your lives but 
what is his word against the frenzy of these mad¬ 
men ?” 

He would have said more, but his voice was 
drowned in the low, dreary wailing of those who 
knew themselves marked for death. 

Miriam was the first to speak. She came to the 
young priest, her eyes flashing in her pale face, so 
distraught that for once she forgot her maiden 
modesty and caught his hand. “My grandfather!” 
she pleaded, “Will you not save him at least from 
what lies before us? He is an old man and very 
weak. And he has been your teacher and your 
friend.” 

Very gently he took her hand from the sleeve of 
his dark robe. There was a strange glow in his 
cheeks as he answered her; then the flush died away 
leaving him paler than before. He turned to the 
others and his voice, though low and restrained, 
seemed to ring out like a trumpet in that quiet 
place. 

“Those who seek to serve the Cross have stained 
their hands with blood,” he said, “and now they 
would again shed blood in this peaceful town where 
Jew and Christian have long dwelt together in unity 
and love. Should I not seek to save you, then would 
my hands be stained with blood like theirs, and I, 
like Judas, would betray my master by giving over 
his brethren to death. For his sake, then, will I seek 
to save your lives, even at the risk of my own. Go 


THE LONG NIGHT 


97 


now to your homes and say no word to your neigh¬ 
bors who are not of Israel. Gather enough food for 
a long journey and bring with you your wives and 
your little ones when you return to this place an 
hour hence. Under the cover of darkness we will 
seek to steal to safety.” 

An old man, bent and withered, broke in almost 
petulantly: “There is no safety for Israel. Let us 
die in the place of our birth and find rest at last 
beside the graves of our fathers.” 

“Only in the House of Life is there safety for 
Israel,” sobbed another patriarch. 

“Nay,” cried the young priest, and there was that 
in his voice which inspired even the most helpless. 
“I have the promise of the bishop that you will be 
allowed to leave the city unmolested. We will jour¬ 
ney to that corner of France where the Crusaders 
have already passed. There I have a brother, a 
nobleman, powerful enough to grant you protection 
until it is safe for you to return to Bohemia. But 
hasten—we must start out before dawn if you would 
escape the swords of these butchers who journey to 
the Holy Land.” 

In an hour there huddled together in the house 
of Rabbi Abram every Jewish soul, from old men, 
weeping and lamenting that they would surely die 
upon the roadside, to little children who slept peace¬ 
fully in their mothers’ arms, dreaming neither of 
exile nor death. And the young priest passed among 
them, comforting, exhorting, his white face stern 
and sharp as a sword, save when he glanced at 
Miriam, who never left her grandfather’s side. 


98 


IN MANY LANDS 


Then a strange light gleamed in his somber eyes, 
even as when Miriam’s trembling hand had rested 
upon his arm. . . . The dim rays of the lantern he 
carried fell upon the golden ringlets that had escaped 
from the dark scarf wound about her head. Her 
beauty hurt him and a look of pain swept across 
his face. 

The days and nights that followed were like one 
long night of agony and fear. For the way was 
bleak and hard and many aged and weak perished 
and were laid to rest by the roadside, far from the 
House of Life, where they had left their own 
fathers, exiles in a strange land. Yet the living 
envied them their deaths, for neither the hatred of 
man nor the cruel weariness of the road could tor¬ 
ment them any more. And those who lived were 
spent and sick and faint for food. More than one 
lost hope in that long, dark night and begged to be 
allowed to drop by the wayside to wait for death 
that seemed to promise far more than life for the 
hunted ones of Israel. But the young priest com¬ 
forted them with strong words and filled even the 
weariest with hope until they rose again to follow 
him along the dusty road which led to France and 
safety. 

Of their stay in that sheltered comer, far from 
the fury of the crusaders, no records tell; but the 
old chronicles relate that when peace seemed certain 
for the Jews of Bohemia, they returned in safety 
to their native land and spent there the remainder of 
their days. 

Nor do the records which tell the story of the 


THE LONG NIGHT 


99 


return of the Jews to Bohemia bear mention of 
the parting between the young priest and Miriam 
when he left her at the door of her grandfather’s 
house. . . . 

“You saved us all from death—or worse,” she 
told him, and her sweet eyes shone with tears. “May 
the God who watches over Christian and Jew reward 
you and show you mercy in your need even as you 
have shown mercy to my helpless people.” 

“May He indeed show me mercy, for I am sorely 
tried and afflicted,” answered the young priest, and 
the words seemed forced from his twitching lips. 

“You do not mean that you will suffer for your 
kindness to us—that the bishop-” 

“Nay, for he is your people’s friend. But my 

trouble-” He could say no more and turned to 

leave, but she stayed him. 

“Will you not tell my grandfather of your 
trouble? He is a wise man and pious and he will 
give you good counsel.” She turned to lead him 
into the dim little room where he had often sat with 
her grandfather, but the priest shook his head. 

“I cannot speak of my grief—even to him. He is 
an old man and wise and pious as you say—but is it 
not written that sometimes the young shall be our 
teachers? Miriam—you are but a child—yet, per¬ 
chance, your counsel may come more directly from 
God.” 

She blushed crimson. “Nay—I am but a woman— 
and unlearned,” she stammered. 

“It is because you are a woman that your heart 




100 


IN MANY LANDS 


will speak the very truth of God,” he insisted. “My 
heart is heavy because of the grief of a dear friend 
of mine—a grief known but to him and to me alone. 
He is a priest like myself, loved and respected. Until 
now he has served his God in singleness of heart. 
Now he loves a woman.” 

Miriam’s innocent eyes grew larger with wonder. 
“A priest?” she questioned. “I thought the priests 
of your church were forbidden to wed.” 

“Ay, but for her sake he would forsake his vow 
and live an outcast from his kind. For her dear 
sake he would live the rest of his days among 
infidels, willing to face the punishments of the here¬ 
after for the joy her love would bring him in his 
life. This has my friend decided, but he dare not 
tell the maiden of his love.” 

“Why?” her voice was very low. 

He leaned toward her, his eyes devouring her 
face. “Because, Miriam, she is a Jewess. I need 
not tell you that the laws of her people and mine 
would forbid such a marriage even if I—even if my 
friend were not a priest. He loves her with a love 
that is stronger than death, but he does not know 
whether she loves him enough to risk exile and 
shame and even death for his sake. If you were 

that woman-” He said no more, but stood silent 

before her. 

Miriam’s face was as cold and passionless as snow 
as she answered him. “If I were that woman,” she 
answered calmly, “I would tell your friend: ‘Do 
not stain the beautiful deed you have done for my 




THE LONG NIGHT 


101 


people by bringing shame upon one of their honored 
teachers, like—like my grandfather. Let them think 
of you as a Christian who is merciful to Israel for 
love of the master he serves—not for love of a 
woman. Help a Jewish woman to treasure in her 
heart the thought of a noble man who did nobly 
with no thought of reward.' ” She smiled into his 
somber eyes a little wanly. “This is my message to 
your ‘friend/ ” she told him. 

He drew his robes closer about him, his face cold 
and sharp like a sword. “Bid your grandfather 
farewell for me,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow I set 
out for the Holy Land on a pilgrimage which will 
be as a penance for my sin.” 

He turned from her so abruptly that he was mer¬ 
cifully unaware of the white agony of her face. Nor 
did he turn as he passed down the twisted, narrow 
street, so he was spared the sight of her swaying 
upon the threshold of her grandfather's house, her 
hands extended to him as he went out of her life 
forever. 

“God forgive me for loving you,” sobbed 
Miriam. . . . 

She lived to be a very old woman and often told 
the grandchildren who clustered about her knee 
of the terrible flight into France when the crusaders 
left a crimson stain across the land. But she told 
them little of the young priest who had guided her 
people into life and liberty. Still she had not for¬ 
gotten him, for in the Sephira days, when all Israel 
mourns the martyrs who have fallen for the glory 


102 


IN MANY LANDS 


of God, she prayed also for the young priest who 
had died so many years ago in the Holy Land. She 
was a pious mother in Israel and often feared she 
sinned for cherishing such memories—yet she never 
once forgot the prayers for the lover of her youth. 


LAG BAOMER 

THE SCHOLARS* HOLIDAY 


Lag Baomer is the thirty-third day in the counting of 
the Omer. It is a welcome break in the period of the 
sad Sephira days, and marriages, prohibited during 
the rest of the seven weeks, are permitted, while chil¬ 
dren in Cheder often found in the minor holiday one 
of the happiest days in the entire school year. 

For the day became a special holiday for school chil¬ 
dren, since according to one account a dreadful plague 
that raged during the Sephira days suddenly ceased on 
Lag Baomer because of the prayers of the pupils of 
Rabbi Akiba. For this reason the Cheder pupils were 
allowed a special indulgence, respite from their long 
lessons and an entire day’s excursion in the fields. It 
was hoped that the day of freedom might remind the 
children that once the Jew had owned broad and fertile 
fields of his own, while the bows that the boys carried 
were said to signify the rainbow, the symbol of hope 
that some day the Jew would no longer be an exile upon 
the face of the earth, but would hold his own land in 
peace and prosperity. 

According to other stories, the bows were to remind 
the children of the miracle of Rabbi Simeon ben Yohai, 
the great Jewish mystic, who is said to have written the 
mysterious volume of the Zohar. During the days when 
the Romans held sway over Palestine the rabbis were 

103 


104 


IN MANY LANDS 

forbidden to teach the Law to their pupils on pain of 
death. Simeon ben Yohai would have suffered death 
for defying his Roman masters had he not taken refuge 
in a cave, where he remained hidden for fourteen years. 
When he died the rainbow, which had not been seen 
during his lifetime, again appeared in the sky, recalling 
his prophecy that before the Messiah came to free the 
Jewish people a bow of many colors would appear in 
the heavens. And so the old symbol of hope became a 
promise of the hoped-for redeemer of Israel. 

Many hoped it would be Bar Kochba, the dashing 
Jewish general who for a while defied even the armies 
of Rome. Among his staunchest supporters was Rabbi 
Akiba, who did all he could to rally followers for Bar 
Kochba, and after his death continued to teach the 
Jewish Law until he was thrown into prison. Dying 
of the most agonizing tortures, his courage astonished 
even his executioners, who thought that only by some 
sorcery could he be able to endure his agony with a 
smile. 

“No,” answered Rabbi Akiba from the midst of the 
flames, “I am no sorcerer. Every day of my life I have 
repeated the Shema, but today for the first time I really 
know what it means to love the Lord my God with all 
my heart and all my soul and all my strength.” 

Around his body the Romans had wound the scroll 
of the Torah and they laughed to see the two consumed 
to ashes together. But the spirit of Rabbi Akiba lived 
on in his descendants, who continued to study the Law 
long after their tormentors had gone their way along 
with the other vanquished nations of the earth. Again 
the Dove had triumphed over the Eagle; again had con¬ 
quered Israel outlived his conqueror. 



THE PROMISE OF SPRING 


Hanging on the apple spray, 

Sings a robin all the day: 

(How the song o’er flows his throat!) 
Praise to God Who gives us May. 


Shy the violet and afraid. 

Yet she murmurs in her glade: 

(All her sold in perf ume shed) 
Thanks to Him for sun and shade! 


If the Father loves them well. 

Bird and Flower of the dell. 

His great heart will keep us warm, 
Israel’s children, safe from harm; 
He who gives the violet dew, 

He will nourish Israel, too! 


105 











THE DOVE AND THE EAGLE 

A Story of Lag Baomer in Palestine 


The rain-drenched trees were vocal with spring, 
for the little birds knew nothing of the sorrows of 
Israel, and sang from happy hearts. But the Jewish 
students, who gathered together in Meron during the 
dark days of Hadrian’s persecution of the faithful, 
grieved together, and doubted whether the clouds 
would ever disappear from their sky. 

“Even our master, Rabbi ben Yochai, has been 
taken from us,” lamented Judah ben Simon. He 
was a stern-faced man, a little older than the rest, 
who loved naught but the Torah, unless it was his 
motherless son Abraham, a slight, pale lad who sat 
near him in respectful silence. “It is said he dwells 
in a cave deep in the forest, but how do we know 
whether he lives or whether he be taken to his 
fathers.” 

“If we could but visit him,” murmured several 
of the rabbi’s disciples. 

“Nay,” declared Benjamin ben Aaron, another 
of the older men, “that would be impossible. The 
cursed Romans have, as you know, placed a price 
upon his head for teaching our Torah to us, and if 

he be found his life will be forfeit. Their soldiers 

106 


THE DOVE AND THE EAGLE 


107 


are scattered even through the forest, and if they 
saw us approach where the master is hidden they 
would suspect his hiding place and drag him forth 
to his death.” 

“But if we might go unobserved,” insisted Judah. 
“For surely it would cheer his heart to know that 
we, his disciples, still study our Torah in secret, 
and though threatened by death, are still faithful to 
the law he taught us.” 

“Father,” little Abraham cried out suddenly, 
“may I speak?” 

His father frowned upon him, for it was not 
seemly for a ten-year-old lad to speak before a gath¬ 
ering of his elders; but the boy was too excited to 
wait for permission, and swept on eagerly. 

“Father, I know a way in which we may visit 
Rabbi ben Yochai without bringing evil upon his 
head or our own.” 

“Then speak,” commanded his father, half smiling 
at the boy’s eagerness. 

“A few days ago, when I was playing in the for¬ 
est,” began Abraham, blushing a little to be the center 
of so many eyes, “I saw a number of the Romans 
hunting game with bows and arrows. They would 
question us if we wandered through the woods with¬ 
out being able to explain our errand; but if we car¬ 
ried bows and arrows and game bags they would 
think we were out hunting and would let us pass 
in peace.” 

“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings!” ex¬ 
claimed Manasseh ben Sadi. “The child’s words are 
a path of safety to our feet.” 


108 


IN MANY LANDS 


“We will go tomorrow; we will seek our master/' 
the others chorused happily. 

* ‘Father, let me go,” pleaded little Abraham when 
they were alone in their house that evening. “I will 
be very good; I will not speak a word. But I do 
want to look upon the face of Rabbi ben Yochai 
again.” 

His father considered. “Yes, you may go,” he 
said at last. “It will be a thing to tell your sons’ 
sons in years to come how you were one of a band 
of faithful sons of Israel who sought their rabbi 
and cheered him in his exile.” 

“But can the child be trusted?” objected Benjamin 
the next day, when, equipped with bows and arrows 
and game bags, the group of students met together 
and prepared to set out for the forest. “If we were 
to come upon the Roman guards suddenly-” 

“Then he would conduct himself as my son,” 
answered the boy’s father. “Besides, it might do 
much to disarm their suspicions if they saw that one 
of us had taken a child with us, as though we had 
nothing to fear.” 

“What do you carry in your breast, my boy?” 
asked Manasseh, as they set out for the forest. 

“My pet dove,” answered the lad, showing it to 
him, resting contentedly in the breast of his loose 
robe. 

“I never saw it before, although I have often vis¬ 
ited your father.” 

“I have not had it long,” explained Abraham, 
delighted to be allowed to talk about his pet. “A 
few weeks ago I was playing in the woods and I 



THE DOVE AND THE EAGLE 


109 


found the poor creature caught in a trap, starving, 
and its leg hurt and bleeding.” 

“So you rescued it,” smiled Manasseh, amused at 
the boy’s earnestness, for like most Jews of his gen¬ 
eration he could not understand feeling affection for 
a household pet. “But why did you not leave it at 
home today ?” 

The boy shook his head gravely. “I was afraid. 
Suppose the Romans had taken the whim to destroy 
Meron and had fired our houses; the poor thing 
could not have escaped from his cage and would 

have perished. And if I had found it dead-” 

He held the little bundle of feathers closer to his 
heart, and even Manasseh understood, as he remem¬ 
bered how the little fellow had no brothers and sis¬ 
ters and sorely missed his mother, dead these many 
months. 

But he said nothing, only laid a kindly hand upon 
the boy’s shoulder, and together they walked in 
silence beneath the trees still sparkling from the 
warm spring shower. It was a world of peace they 
had entered, and for a moment he ceased to think of 
Rome and the persecutions of Hadrian. 

Then suddenly he caught the boy’s arm and spoke 
to him with a low note of warning. No more was 
needed. In those days a Jewish boy was taught to be 
wary and to look for danger even when he seemed 
to walk in paths of peace. “What is it?” he half 
whispered. 

His heart leaped to his throat, for he saw ap¬ 
proaching the little party of Jews a dozen or more 
Roman soldiers, glittering in all their bravery of 



110 


IN MANY LANDS 


crimson and gold. They stopped a few yards from 
the trembling scholars and he who seemed to be 
their leader asked sharply: 

“Judaeans, where are you going?” 

“Do men seek for the fish in the rivers when they 
carry bows and arrows?” answered Benjamin, striv¬ 
ing to speak lightly. “How have you fared with 
your hunting, O Centurion?” 

The Centurion eyed him suspiciously. “It is 
strange to see Jewish scholars follow the chase,” he 
commented. “What have your arrows brought to 
earth ?” 

Child though he was, little Abraham realized their 
deadly danger, and his quick mind grasped at a straw 
by which they might escape. A sudden diversion 
might allay the Roman’s suspicions, but should he 
continue to doubt, death might be the end of this 
day’s hunting. Not their blood alone, but, if his 
hiding place were discovered, the blood of the re¬ 
vered rabbi would flow as well. Although his heart 
almost broke within him at the thought of the thing 
he planned to do, his lips did not tremble as he whis¬ 
pered to his companion: 

“They have not noticed us yet. Fit your arrow 
to your bow quickly and shoot when I let my dove 
fly, that they may think we have indeed come into 
the forest for our hunting.” He pressed his lips 
to the little creature’s head, whispering the words he 
had always used when he wished it to fly to its cote 
at night, and with a slow lifting of wings the white 
bird left his breast and soared up into the sunshine. 

“Look—a bird!” cried Manasseh in pretended 


THE DOVE AND THE EAGLE 


111 


joy, although his soul grieved for the grief of the 
child beside him. He had been a soldier in his youth 
and his arrow was well aimed. A moment later the 
dove, pierced and bleeding, lay at his feet. He lifted 
the fluttering bird high before the Romans. 

“At last we have found game,” he said, speaking 
lightly. “Will you not join us in our hunt?” 

Long after the Romans had passed on, the little 
band of faithful scholars greeted their rabbi in the 
cave in which he had sought refuge. And there 
Manasseh told the story of the dove sacrificed for 
their sakes, and there did Abraham’s father bid the 
boy cease his weeping. 

“For you are almost a man,” he said sternly, “and 
must put away childish things.” 

“But I loved my dove,” sobbed Abraham. 

“Grieve not, my son,” Rabbi ben Yochai was 
speaking now, “for through the death of your treas¬ 
ure these men of Israel live. Even so has our Israel 
ever been the dove pursued by the eagle, yet lovely 
in the eyes of Him who made it. You have done a 
mighty thing today, my son, for you have saved 
these men in whom the Torah lives.” 

“But I want my dove,” sobbed Abraham, and he 
would not be comforted. 


SHABUOTH 

THE FESTIVAL OF THE FIRST FRUITS 

Shabuoth, coming the seventh week after Passover, 
is the second pilgrim feast of the Jew. On that day it 
was obligatory for the head of every household to jour¬ 
ney to Jerusalem to lay upon the altar the first fruits 
of his trees and his offering of wheat. For in Palestine 
the harvest comes very early, the barley harvest at Pass- 
over, the wheat at Shabuoth and the harvest of fruits 
in the autumn at Succoth. So on Shabuoth the offering 
was not only a basket of first fruits arranged according 
to a fanciful pattern and a dove, but also two loaves of 
bread baked from the first grain of the year’s harvest. 

In Palestine at Shabuoth the meadows are covered 
with flowers. The festival may be said to be the Flower 
Day of the Jewish people; even in the Middle Ages, 
when the stony pavements of the ghetto gave no 
promise of blooming for the landless people, the Jew, 
who could never forget the pastoral pilgrimages of his 
nation, still decked his synagogue with flowery garlands 
and scattered grass upon the floors. 

Today the custom of the offering of ‘‘first fruits” 
is observed by many Jews, who have set aside the day 
for Confirmation. On Shabuoth boys and girls who 
have been instructed in their religion pledge their 
allegiance to Judaism, and, like the children who 
listened to the thunders at Sinai, repeat the solemn 
promise, “All that the Lord has laid upon us will 
we do.” 


SHABUOTH 


113 


For on Shabuoth occurred an event perhaps more 
momentous to the Jew than the delivery from Egypt; 
on Passover he became a free man, on Shabuoth the 
God Who delivered him from bondage gave him a 
moral code by which to live. According to one legend, 
the Ten Commandments were offered in turn to the 
heathen neighbors of the Jewish people; each rejected 
the Torah, refusing to obey its precepts. But the Jews 
not only promised to obey the Voice from Sinai, but 
offered their children as pledges that the Torah would 
always be treasured by Israel. 

On Shabuoth the Book of Ruth is read in the syna¬ 
gogue since Ruth of Moab, although the daughter of 
an alien people, accepted the Law of Israel and vowed 
to remain true to its teachings. The story is most appro¬ 
priate for the Shabuoth season since it is a lovely idyl 
laid in the fields of Judea, a story of the barley harvest 
and how Ruth, a stranger, came to find shelter in the 
land of Israel. 

Today as we gather in our synagogues to listen to 
the old story our minds wander back along the twisted 
paths our people have trod since that first Shabuoth at 
Sinai; we see the rugged mountain, crowned with 
flames, the Jews prostrate at its foot as they waited for 
the sound of the Divine Voice; we catch glimpses of the 
simple pastoral life of Israel in the days when Ruth, 
footsore and weary, entered Bethlehem to find there a 
husband and home; we watch the happy pilgrims jour¬ 
neying toward Jerusalem, their offerings in their hands, 
a picture that dissolves and gives place to a scene in a 
medieval synagogue, cramped and dark and unlovely, 
but beautiful on a springtime day when an exiled people 
decked it with garlands, rejoicing in their Law that like 
a rose shed its perfume in an alien land far from 
Jerusalem. 


THE NEW HARVEST 


No more doth Ruth among the sheaves 
Her hard-won treasures heap; 

No more beneath the laughing leaves 
Young David tends his sheep: 

Our kingly Saul who drove the plough 
Hath fallen by the sword; 

Shabuoth brings no pilgrim now 
With songs to praise the Lord. 

But we who on our shoulders bore 
The Ghetto's heavy pack, 

Land-hungry as our sires of yore, 

Have slowly wandered back; 

We prune the trees, we till the soil 
Our kings and prophets trod; 

Their land grows holier through the toil 
We dedicate to God. 



114 






























A ROSE FOR BEAUTY 

A Story of Shabuoth in France 


In the days when the name of Rashi filled the heart 
of every pious Jew in France with pride, the ghetto 
folk, although they walked in the narrow ways of 
the towns, still found it possible to welcome the 
Festival of Shabuoth as joyfully as a bridegroom 
greets his bride. They had forgotten the fragrance 
of the open fields, but when the days of the Omer 
were over and Shabuoth brought springtime and 
hope, the exiled Jews greeted the holy day with re¬ 
joicing and flowers and song. True, they no longer 
journeyed along the paths of Palestine, singing as 
they went, their arms filled with offerings from their 
own fields, brought to lay upon the altar at Jeru¬ 
salem; but now after centuries of exile, the children 
of Israel spread sweet-smelling grass upon the floors 
of their synagogues and turned their bare houses of 
prayer into bowers of fresh spring blossoms. 

In Le Mans—where even today the traveler sees 
the remains of the old Street of the Jews, which still 
bears its ancient name, although for many years no 
Jew has dwelt within its boundaries—in the little 
city of Le Mans dwelt Reuben the merchant and his 

only child Rachel. Rachel, being motherless, had 

115 


116 


IN MANY LANDS 


long since become the mistress of her father’s home 
and was wise beyond her years in all the matters of 
the house; her father’s wealth was the envy of even 
Christian hearts in Le Mans; yet had she been heavy 
of hand and slothful and without a dowry, still 
Rachel would never have waited long for a suitor. 
Her face was like a rose in its fresh beauty and more 
than one maiden in the Street of the Jews had to con¬ 
fess that if the Jews ever descended to the follies of 
their Gentile neighbors and crowned one of their 
number Queen of Beauty, the daughter of Reuben 
would have surely worn that diadem. 

So it was little wonder that Zebulun, the mar¬ 
riage broker, came often to the house of Rachel’s 
father, there to sit and chat with Reuben over the 
red wine and present the name of first this suitor 
and then that for the rich man’s approval. And he 
named, one after another, the most worthy young 
men in the whole city, youths of proud names and 
wealth, or scholars of promise, lads any man might 
have been proud to choose for a son-in-law. But at 
every visit Reuben the merchant did a thing so 
shocking that few Jews believed Zebulun at first 
when he sought to spread the scandal through Le 
Mans: instead of deciding upon a husband for his 
daughter, he would actually call her into the room 
and discuss the matter with her. No wonder Zebu¬ 
lun was heard to declare that Reuben must either be 
in his dotage or else he was bewitched by his own 
daughter’s beauty! 

“Nay, my father,” Rachel would declare at every 
interview, “nay, the young man may be worthy of a 


117 


A ROSE FOR BEAUTY 

queen, but I do not care to marry him.” And then 
she would run laughingly from the room, leaving 
Reuben to chuckle over his glass and Zebulun to 
declare that the end of the world was surely coming 
when Jewish maidens were allowed to pick and 
choose among their suitors like the heathen ladies 
who actually gave their lovers favors to wear before 
the eyes of all men even before their betrothals. 

“True, true,” Reuben would nod, smiling in his 
beard. “And it is right for other fathers to choose 
husbands for their daughters, and it is fitting that 
other Jewish maidens obey. But my Beauty is not 
like other women; she laughs and sings and plays 
from morning until night, but her dark eyes are like 
her mother’s and I can trust them to see clearly. 
And why should I be in haste to have her wed when 
she is not yet seventeen and a child in so many 
ways?” 

“A child!” Zebulun was now really horror- 
stricken. “Do we not pity even a dowerless maiden 
who has not come beneath the marriage canopy 
before her seventeenth year? Do not yield to her 
whims, I beg you, else neither your gold nor her 
beauty will bring her a husband in the end.” 

But Reuben only laughed, declaring it would make 
him happy if Beauty never thought of taking a hus¬ 
band until he himself no longer needed her and lay 
at peace in the House of Life beside Rachel’s fair 
mother. Which was such a shocking wish for a 
Jewish father in those days, when to remain unwed 
was considered little less than a sin, that Zebulun 


118 IN MANY LANDS 

had no answer at all and left him speechless with 
horror. 

Now it was Shabuoth again, which meant that 
springtime had come to Le Mans, not only to the 
estates of the nobles and the princes, where the trees 
leaved and budded in the golden sunshine, but to 
the Street of the Jews also, where the children of 
Israel returned in spirit to the homeland and dreamed 
of long-ago pilgrimages along the sun-warmed roads 
of Palestine. And Rachel, opening the latticed win¬ 
dow of her chamber, sang for sheer joy as she looked 
out into the street below and listened to the twitter 
of the little birds, a-building in the eaves. 

Her merry eyes grew suddenly grave. “Spring!” 
murmured Rachel, “and the birds are building their 
nests and preparing to care for their little ones. But 
I have no home of my own, although my father is 
very good to me. All my girl friends have wedded 
and are happy in building their homes, while I am 
still like a wild bird who fears the cage.” And now 
her eyes brightened as they fell upon a youth passing 
slowly down the street on his way to the synagogue. 
For she recognized him as Nathaniel, an orphan 
youth of whom even the oldest men along the Jews’ 
Street spoke with great respect. Nathaniel was poor 
and alone in the world; he had neither the gold of 
the money-lender and merchant nor the greater gold 
of eloquent speech. But the men who remained in 
the House of Study from early morning until far 
in the night, loath to rest even for a moment from 
their reading of the Torah, these scholars declared 
that Nathaniel was a lad of great promise, a shining 


A ROSE FOR BEAUTY 119 

light of learning, even in that day when to be a 
student was greater than to be a king. 

Nathaniel had never raised his eyes to Rachel, 
nor, in fact, to any other maiden. When he stepped 
from the dim day of the synagogue into the bright 
sunshine of the Jews’ Street, his eyes ever sought 
the ground and he walked like a man in a dream, his 
lips moving noiselessly as though he still murmured 
passages from his beloved Torah. No recluse shut 
in a monastery cell, no holy hermit, revered by the 
Christians, ever lived more remote from his fellow- 
men than did Nathaniel, the youth upon whom 
Rachel, the Beauty of the Jews’ Street, now gazed 
with shining eyes. 

An hour later when Nathaniel sat in his familiar 
corner, swaying to and fro as he fed upon the honey 
of the Torah, Rachel, standing before her mirror, 
decked herself in her fairest garments, even slip¬ 
ping about her neck and arms the golden ornaments 
her mother had worn upon her wedding day. And 
in her glossy braids she thrust a red rose before she 
joined her father. 

Reuben looked her over with proud eyes. “Why 
are you dressed with such splendor, my daughter?” 
he asked, noting the jewels. 

“Is it not fitting to deck myself like a bride, when 
I go to the synagogue on Shabuoth,” answered 
Rachel demurely, “since this day is the betrothal day 
for Israel?” From a vessel upon the table she drew 
forth a huge cluster of crimson roses and lilies. 
“See, I take these to make the synagogue beautiful 
for our festival” 


120 


IN MANY LANDS 


They walked to the synagogue together, Rachel 
chattering all the way as though she wished to make 
up for the time she must be absent from him, up in 
the women’s gallery, during the services. But the 
man was silent, thinking how much she looked like 
her mother on her day of betrothal, before the mar¬ 
riage shears had shorn her of her crown of glossy 
hair. 

So they passed from the bright warmth of the 
street into the cool dimness of the synagogue. And 
there, bending over his desk, sat Nathaniel, his lips 
moving, his eyes aglow with happiness. Rachel was 
only a simple woman, unlearned in the Law, but she 
knew that at that moment Nathaniel was not think¬ 
ing of the spring sunshine outside or roses and lilies 
or a maiden’s face. And she knew at that moment 
that she wanted Nathaniel to lay aside his dreaming 
for a little while at least and love her as well as the 
Torah to which he had given every hour of his 
young life. 

Rachel hesitated as she stood there, her arms filled 
with lilies and roses she had brought to make the 
synagogue beautiful for Shabuoth. Then, a look 
of determination in her bright eyes, she dropped a 
rose across the page over which Nathaniel leaned. 
A moment later she was gone, but the rose, breathing 
of spring and youth and sunshine, lay like a softly 
flushing ruby upon the holy words. 

Rousing himself slowly from his dreaming, 
Nathaniel picked up the flower. He looked at it 
curiously, for he had been far too busy studying 
the word of God to learn to love His handiwork. 


121 


A ROSE FOR BEAUTY 

Another time and he might have tossed it aside; but 
he remembered that on Shabuoth flowers and sweet¬ 
smelling grass and young trees are brought to the 
very altar and that a pious Jew may enjoy their 
beauty. So he murmured the prayer to be recited 
when a man looks upon a beautiful object; then 
turned again to his study. 

But he did not throw the rose away. It was still 
in his hand as he went from the House of Study 
that night and passed below the window where 
Rachel, a rose still in her hair, looked down upon 
him. Then, for a second time that day, the daughter 
of Reuben the merchant did an unseemly and im¬ 
modest thing. She slipped down the stairs and fol¬ 
lowed Nathaniel, and when she reached his side 
called his name. She had not forgotten that such 
boldness would brand a modest Jewish maiden with 
everlasting shame; but she was determined to speak 
with him, and she was too impatient to devise 
another plan. 

Nathaniel stared at her with eyes suddenly awake 
and almost unconsciously repeated the prayer which 
the rose had called from his lips. For now that he 
looked upon a girl's face he found her very fair. 
She seemed like a rose to him in her fresh, young 
beauty, and he stared helplessly from the flower he 
held in his hand to her flushed, shamed face. 

Rachel spoke at last. “Give me back my rose/’ 
and she held out her hand. “It is mine,” she added, 
as he did not answer. “I dropped it this morning in 
the synagogue.” 

Then Nathaniel found his voice and answered, not 


122 


IN MANY LANDS 


like a pious student of the Torah, but like a poet: 
‘‘That is why I want to keep this rose.” 

Rachel glanced nervously toward her father’s 
house; she must not be seen standing here in the 
street talking to a young man; yet she was deter¬ 
mined that Nathaniel would know just why she had 
sought him so boldly. 

“You must give me my rose,” she repeated firmly. 
“It was the most beautiful rose I had and it should 
have been placed in the synagogue with my other 
flowers.” 

“But tomorrow it will be withered,” urged 
Nathaniel. “Why do you want it back?” 

“I do not want it at all,” confessed Rachel. “I 
only wanted to talk with you. Now I must not see 
you alone again for—oh, many, many days. But 
ask Zebulun, the marriage broker, to come to my 
father’s house tomorrow and talk with him. My 
father will not mind your being poor, because you 
are already such a great scholar,” she ended shame¬ 
lessly. 

For a great scholar Nathaniel showed himself 
very slow of wit. “You mean that you will marry 
me?” he stammered. 

Rachel nodded. “Now give me back my rose.” 

“Why? You said you did not care for it.” 

But her fingers had already closed about the flower. 
“I will give you this instead,” and she drew the sister 
rose from her hair. “Tell Zebulun to come very 
soon,” she called over her shoulder, for she feared 
that on the morrow a dreamer like her lover might 
go back to his studies and forget all about her. 


A ROSE FOR BEAUTY 


123 


Nathaniel did not forget the night he gave Beauty 
her rose—at least for several years, for how can one 
expect a pious Jew and a great scholar always to act 
like a heathen poet? But Rachel remembered even 
after the rose leaves had withered into dust and her 
own daughters, only a little less beautiful than she 
had been in her youth, passed under the marriage 
canopy. 


TISHA B’AV 

THE DAY ON WHICH OUR TEMPLE FELL 

# 

Tisha b’Av, the ninth day of the month of Av, 
usually occurs in August and marks the day on which 
the Temple at Jerusalem was destroyed, first by the 
Babylonians, later by the Romans. In 586 (B. C. E.) 
the Babylonian conqueror, Nebuchadnezzar, sent sol¬ 
diers who laid waste the city of David and leveled the 
Temple to the ground. Its golden ornaments and sacred 
vessels were carried to Babylon, where for fifty years 
the exiled Jews dreamed of Jerusalem and refused to 
sing the songs of Zion in a strange land. 

Then those who had gone forth from Jerusalem, 
weeping and lamenting, were permitted to return to the 
land of their fathers. The Jews returned to Jerusalem 
and soon another Temple arose and again the songs and 
chants of priests and Levites were heard within its 
walls. But as the years passed the land of Judea fell 
the prey to foreign conquerors. In the year 70 (C. E.) 
the Romans under the leadership of Titus, afterwards 
emperor of Rome, attacked the city and after a long and 
terrible siege made a breach in the walls about Jeru¬ 
salem. It is said that Titus wished to spare the Temple; 
but when a Roman soldier was attacked by a few refu¬ 
gees who had sought shelter there, the Romans could 
not be restrained and burned the entire building except 
the Western Wall, which remains to this very day. 

124 


TISHA B’AV 


125 


This wall, runs the legend, was the work of the 
poorest men of Israel; because they gave of the labor 
of their hands and praised God while they erected their 
wall, it has survived the centuries and still stands as 
a memorial of the ruined Temple. It is at this ruined 
wall that Jews have prayed year after year for the 
restoration of Zion; although they seemed to pray in 
vain they never ceased their vigil and their lamentations 
until the spot became known as the Wailing Wall and 
was never without its mourners. 

Jews in other lands still mourned less for the loss of 
the kingdom of Israel than for the destruction of their 
Temple. In every land Jews still turn toward Jeru¬ 
salem when they pray; in every land the day on which 
the Temple fell is set apart as a day of fasting and of 
mourning as for the dead. 

From morning until dark they gather in their syna¬ 
gogues, where they sit upon the floor, mourning in 
oriental fashion and repeating the Lamentations of 
Jeremiah the prophet, said to have been an eye-witness 
of the first destruction. The prophet describes the 
horrors of the destruction of a great city, the desolation 
and the silence where once reigned gladness and song, 
the pitiful helplessness of the young children who have 
survived the siege. No wonder the worshippers in the 
synagogue weep when they read the lines on Tisha b’Av, 
for the words describe the endless martyrdom of Israel 
and might have been written in our own day. 

Yet Lamentations ends in a note of hope, a prayer 
that God will show mercy unto His people and renew 
their days as of old. Legend tells us that when Jeremiah 
wandered through the ruins of his beloved city after 
it had been made desolate by the Babylonians, he came 
upon a woman veiled and weeping. She told him that 
her house had been destroyed, her husband slain and 


126 


IN MANY LANDS 


her sons carried into captivity. When she uncovered 
her face Jeremiah saw that she was no mortal woman 
but Mother Zion herself, and although his own heart 
was desolate he sought to comfort her, saying: “Weep 
no more, O unhappy mother, for surely your troubles 
will some day end and your sons will return unto you.” 

Today when the sons of Zion return to their Mother, 
singing and strong in hope, it is surely time to hope for 
a new Temple, not like the old one, beautiful as it was, 
but a spiritual center for all the nations that shall flow 
unto it! 


0 LITTLE LAND 

0 little Land of Long Ago, 

Across the troubled seas, 

I long to tread your pleasant ways 
Beneath the olive trees. 

I want to wander in the fields 
That Ruth and Boaz trod, 

And see the place where Jacob slept 
And dreamed his dream of God. 

0 little Land of Long Ago, 

Across the shining sands, 

I want to join the pilgrim folk. 

That come from many lands 
To gather in the Wailing Place, 

As Sabbath shadows fall, 

And pray for Zion and her hope 
Before the Temple wall. 

0 little Land of Long Ago, 

Beneath the smiling skies. 

Where old men weep for Judah's woe, 
Another shrine will rise. 

Their sons will build Jerusalem 
With blood and sweat and pain: 
Rejoice, rejoice, O little Land, 

For we come home again! 



127 









THE VISION THAT PASSED 

A Story of Tisha b’Av in Poland 

I do not know whether this story be a true tale 
or only a dream dreamed by an old man grown 
drowsy from long reading of an ancient book. I 
know only that it is a tale told me by my grandfather, 
who had it from his own father in the long ago. 

Rabbi Joshua was a very old man who had lived 
so long that life had grown to be but a sucked fruit, 
for the pulp was gone and only the tasteless rind 
remained. Once he had been a young student aglow 
with the dreams of youth; once he had stood with 
the elders of his people gathered in the synagogue, 
swaying, weeping, as they prayed for the redemption 
of Zion and the scattered folk of Israel. And while 
the others wept, a strange hope glowed in his heart 
and he repeated in his own soul: “These eyes will 
behold the return of my people unto Zion.” So, if 
he wept at all, his tears were tears of joy. 

In those days Joshua knew the joys of the student 
and he was at peace. Later came the joy of love 
when a maiden slipped her hand into his and listened 
to his wooing. Joshua wedded her and was happy 
in her love, and for a little while he forgot to dream 

of the redemption of his people. For, untroubled by 

128 


THE VISION THAT PASSED 129 

sorrow, he no longer felt the chains of woe which 
bound him to his brethren. 

Children came to him, a boy for whom he dreamed 
great dreams, about whose head he already caught 
the gleam of the scholar’s crown which is more 
precious than gold, and a girl of even rarer beauty 
than her mother. And in the joy of his fatherhood 
Joshua found that the altar fires which had blazed 
in his heart died down to a pleasant flame upon the 
hearth. 

As he grew older, Joshua became a noted man in 
his community, famed for his piety and his learning, 
even in Poland, that abiding place of learned and 
pious men. Plonored by old and young, happy in 
the love of his wife and children, what wonder that 
for a little while he ceased to dream of the redeemer 
who was to lead Israel from weeping unto singing, 
from darkness unto light? What wonder that after 
a day of happy calm he slept contented through the 
dreamless night, nor waked to weep for the many 
woes of Israel ? 

It is said that the wise king wore upon his finger 
a golden circlet inscribed, “Even this will pass away,” 
that in days of grief he might look at it and find 
consolation; while in days of gladness he would 
know that joy never abides and not grow too secure 
in his comfort. So it was with Joshua, for soon the 
days of his happiness passed away never to return. 

First his son, he who was to wear the scholar’s 
crown and bring honor upon his father’s name be¬ 
fore all Israel, fell sick of a fever and between sun¬ 
down and sunset he was dead. Rabbi Joshua’s heart 


130 


IN MANY LANDS 


was torn with his grief, but like Job of old he did 
not cry out against his Maker. “Shall we receive 
good from His hand and not evil?” he murmured 
to himself, seeking the consolation he had so often 
given to others. But just when the bitterness of his 
sorrow had lost its edge, a new blow crushed Joshua 
to the earth. Miriam, the little daughter with her 
mother’s eyes, with sunny curls as fair as her mother’s 
had been ere Joshua had led her beneath the marriage 
canopy, also sickened and died. And to Joshua it 
seemed that no greater sorrow could come to him, 
for he believed that a childless man is like one who 
is already dead. 

But his grief softened his heart and in his black 
days he learned to share with others the sorrows that 
had never touched him before. Now when he sought 
to comfort a mourner, he spoke also to his own soul. 
So although he walked in sorrow all his days, the 
love of his wife and his ministry to others bright¬ 
ened his path. 

Then she who had been the wife of his youth was 
taken from him; for a while it seemed to Joshua 
that his cup was too bitter to taste, that life was too 
dreadful to endure. In his loneliness he was unable 
to find solace even in his beloved books; he turned 
from his friends and those who had depended upon 
him as rabbi and counsellor. To him there was no 
sorrow in the whole universe like his sorrow; he 
brooded upon his grief from early morning until 
late at night, when for very weakness his heavy eye¬ 
lids closed and for a little while he found peace in 
forgetfulness. 


THE VISION THAT PASSED 


131 


His dreadful grief might have broken his heart 
had not a sudden horror roused him from his self¬ 
ish sorrow. On a bright spring morning, when 
the whole world was beautiful with sunshine and the 
song of birds, a peasant cried out that he had seen 
certain Jews mocking the Host as it was borne back 
to the church after the Easter procession. The news 
spread like a devouring flame and those who had 
lived for many years in brotherly peace with their 
Jewish neighbors now turned against them and 
sought their lives. There was a great slaughter that 
day and the Jewish quarter was burned and pillaged. 
And when night came only a few Jews survived, 
cowering and half-mad with fear among the charred 
ruins of their homes. 

Sometimes a blow or a frightful shock breaks the 
spell of a man long tranced, and so it was with 
Rabbi Joshua. He alone of all the dazed survivors 
felt a new life springing within his heart. There 
was much to do, to bury the dead, to succor the 
wounded, to care for the orphans left helpless and 
bewildered in an unfriendly world. All this did 
Rabbi Joshua, and as he strove with all his heart to 
lighten the woes of those about him, his own woes 
disappeared and instead he bore the stripes and bur¬ 
dens of bleeding Israel. 

Now when he prayed for the restoration of Zion 
and wept over the people dispersed and scattered, his 
tears were indeed bitter, for he thought of his own 
little flock, a remnant of a martyr people, torn and 
tortured as a lamb beneath the lion’s paw. Now 
when he dreamed of a return for the wandering ones 


132 


IN MANY LANDS 


of Israel, his soul burned with an ecstatic joy that 
was more terrible than pain. For he visioned the 
day when those whose persecutions he himself had 
shared should return to the land of their fathers, 
where God Himself would heal their wounds and 
wipe away their tears. 

From early morning until late at night he pored 
over his books, searching out the prophecies which 
spoke of a redeemer for Zion. He was not lonely, 
although the few poor survivors of the massacre had 
drifted away to a more friendly place, for the hovel 
in which he dwelt was peopled with visions radiant 
with hope. And when night came and he sought to 
sleep he could not, so sorely did his passionate yearn¬ 
ings for Israel’s salvation torment him and give him 
no rest. Still he was not lonely in the great silence, 
although the place beside him was empty and the 
soft breathing of his sleeping children no longer 
came to him through the darkness. Then he would 
rise and pray for the redemption of Zion, and 
although at such times he wept, his tears were not 
tears of despair. 

Once, when the heat of summer lay over the land, 
he rose from his bed to pray. It was near midnight, 
and as he prayed it seemed to him that of all living 
things he was the only soul awake. Rabbi Joshua 
recalled that dawn would bring Tisha b’Av, the 
day on which the Temple at Jerusalem had been 
destroyed, long ago in the days of Jeremiah, who 
would never cease from grieving for the punishment 
of his people. And new hope flamed in the heart of 
Rabbi Joshua, for he remembered the saying of the 


THE VISION THAT PASSED 


133 


sages, that on the day the Temple was destroyed 
the Messiah would be born. Perhaps this very day 
his eager eyes might behold the face of Him who 
would bring deliverance to Zion. 

Girding his robe about him, the old man opened 
his door and stepped out into the sleeping world. It 
seemed that an unseen hand was leading him toward 
the forest where the tall trees stood dreaming in the 
waning moonlight. He felt that once within the for¬ 
est his eyes would behold what the eyes of man had 
never seen before, yet he was not afraid, so close 
had his prayers brought him to the knees of God. 

In the forest, over which hung a great stillness, 
he wandered until dawn like a man in a dream. And 
at last he came to a clearing among the trees, a grassy 
spot he had never seen before, although he had long 
known every secret path of the forest as well as a 
man who knows the features of his beloved. And 
in the center of this grassy place sat a very old man, 
older even than Rabbi Joshua, his face hidden in the 
dark mantle he wore. But though his face was hid¬ 
den, Rabbi Joshua knew him for Jeremiah, who has 
never ceased to mourn for Israel since his tortured 
eyes beheld the flaming ruins of the Temple upon 
Zion’s hill. 

Like a man in a dream, Rabbi Joshua spoke to 
him, having no fear: “O Jeremiah, do you still 
mourn for our Mother Zion ? Has not the day come 
at last when she will be comforted and her captive 
sons return? Feed my heart with hope, for I have 
long prayed for that day to come.” 


134 IN MANY LANDS 

But the shrouded figure spoke not, nor did he 
turn his head. 

And Rabbi Joshua cried again: “O Jeremiah, 
have I not mourned, even as you ? Have I not drunk 
the tears of affliction and eaten the bread of bitter¬ 
ness? Tell me, I pray you, when will our redeemer 
come and lead Israel into peace ?” 

Then the dark figure dropped its cloak and turned 
toward Rabbi Joshua a face of mingled sorrow and 
joy, a face long marked by grief and tears, yet shin¬ 
ing with hope. His lips moved and Rabbi Joshua’s 
heart almost ceased to beat in its eagerness, for 
surely Jeremiah, the prophet of Jerusalem, would 
speak to him of the day of return. 

And even as Jeremiah the prophet opened his lips 
to speak, a great cloud descended and wrapped him 
from sight; and when the cloud had lifted there was 
no longer a clearing in the forest and Rabbi Joshua 
stood alone beneath the dreaming trees. 

Dawn broke above the sleeping world and in a 
nearby nest a drowsy bird stirred its dewy wings 
and raised its voice in song. 


SABBATH 

THE JEWISH REST DAY 


The Sabbath is the one Jewish holy day mentioned 
in the Ten Commandments, which instruct the Jew to 
“Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy.’' In the 
days when the Temple stood it was a day of rest and 
special sacrifices and songs in the service. After the 
destruction of the Temple, prayers replaced the sacri¬ 
ficial ceremonies, and the Sabbath became a day of 
special prayer. 

Today the Sabbath is observed in the synagogues 
both on Friday night and on Saturday morning. In 
many cases the worshippers also gather upon the Sab¬ 
bath afternoon for quiet discussion of religious topics 
and a study of Jewish lore, especially “The Sayings of 
the Fathers.” 

But the observances of the Sabbath in the Jewish 
home are even more unique and beautiful. Here the 
family table becomes an altar, the father a priest, 
the mother a priestess of the home. The father on his 
return from the synagogue blesses the children, praying 
that they should become noble Jews; then, after the 
mother has lighted and blessed the lights, he makes 
Kiddush (sanctification) by pronouncing the Hebrew 
benedictions over the wine and the bread. The family 
meal becomes a sort of festival and is often prolonged 
by singing psalms and songs which have become identi¬ 
fied with the Sabbath. 

On Saturday eyening as dusk falls and the first three 

135 



136 


IN MANY LANDS 


stars appear in the heavens the father performs the 
Havdalah or separation ceremony. With his hands 
extended over a candle that the flame shows both the 
light and the shadow, he again thanks God who has 
given the Jew his Sabbath, separating light from the 
darkness, rest from labor, the sacred from the profane. 
Often a spice box is waved that the Sabbath Princess 
may depart in a wave of sweet incense, and the happy 
festival is over. 

According to one beautiful story, two angels always 
enter the Jewish home upon Sabbath eve and stand 
behind the master of the house when he returns from 
the synagogue. One is dark with an evil and somber 
face, the other gracious and beautiful. If the home is 
still in week-day disorder and the table undecked for 
the Sabbath feast, the bad angel declares in triumph, 
“May all this man’s Sabbaths be like this,” to which 
the good angel is forced to murmur a sad “Amen.” 
But if the house is clean, the candles lighted, the table 
set for the Friday night feast, and the wife ready to 
welcome her husband, to be greeted in turn by his 
recital of Solomon’s praise of the virtuous woman, then 
the good angel exclaims in delight: “May all this 
man’s Sabbaths be like this,” and the bad angel is forced 
to answer “Amen.” An old parable written for a 
legend-loving people, but even the most rationalistic 
Jew today realizes that he who would receive the bless¬ 
ing of the Sabbath Bride must show himself worthy of 
her presence. 

For through the homeless years of restriction and 
persecution the Jew could ever turn to his Sabbath as 
a day of peace and blessing. It was for him a portion 
of the goodly land set apart by the waves of the river 
Sambatyon from the turmoils and dangers of an un¬ 
believing world. 



SABBATH PEACE 

Lo, we who tasted exile's bread, 

And drained the cup of tears. 

Who hungered for Jerusalem 
Through all the darkened years, 

Now pause beside Sambatyon’s wave; 

And on our holy sod, 

Wrapped in the dusk of Sabbath eve, 
We know the peace of God. 


137 














THE RIVER OF DREAMS 

A Story of the Sabbath in Austria 

A little low room in a humble house in the Jews' 
street of a medieval Austrian city, an old man sitting 
near the window to catch the last rays of the setting 
sun that he may read a little longer, since it is the 
Sabbath and he will light no taper. His long white 
beard sweeps the pages of the heavy book before 
him; his eyes sparkle with joy as he reads. 

The story that Solomon ben Jacob read was an 
old one; he himself had heard it from his grand¬ 
father ; the teacher in his Cheder had told it to him 
when he was but a child. An old story, yet the aged 
dreamer loved it as dearly now as in the days when, 
as a solemn-eyed little boy, he had planned to run 
away from the dark ghetto, past the iron gates into 
the green fields and on, on, across a smiling world 
until he found the River Sambatyon. 

There is no river like it beneath the sun, say the 
rabbis of other days. For six days it flows with 
great force and fury and its roar may be heard for 
miles around. But on the seventh day, the Sabbath, 
it rests and becomes a river of peace. Beyond its 
waters dwell the sons of Moses, a tribe of happy men 
who know neither want nor pain nor sorrow. 

138 


THE RIVER OF DREAMS 


139 


“And are they really Jews?” little Solomon had 
asked his father wonderingly. For, child though he 
was, he knew only too well the burdens of the ghetto 
dwellers, scanty bread eaten with tears and water 
drunk with trembling beneath the shadow of the 
sword. His grandfather had once pointed to certain 
graves in the old Jewish cemetery where their dead 
lay huddled and despised as in life, and had told the 
wondering child of a priest-led mob that had crossed 
the ghetto threshold to pillage and to slay. Solo¬ 
mon’s grandfather had been a small boy at the time 
of the massacre, but he remembered the things he 
had seen and told his story so vividly that little Solo¬ 
mon sprang from his bed that night wild-eyed with 
terror and sought refuge in his mother’s arms. And 
the boy never forgot his grandfather’s tale, never 
threw off his fear that some day the Gentiles beyond 
the ghetto gates might again rise in hatred and 
sweep like a destructive wave over his people. No 
wonder then that he found it hard to believe a Jew 
might be happy, that after hearing of the mystic 
river he longed to dwell with the sons of Moses upon 
its peaceful banks. 

The years brought wisdom and the boy knew that 
he would never find the river; yet he loved the old 
story with a strange love even after he had reached 
the years of manhood and his own children climbed 
his knee to listen to his stories. The river of dreams 
flowed through the darkness of his poverty and pri¬ 
vations; smiling at his own folly, he sometimes 
pictured for himself the land beyond the Sambatyon, 
a place of prosperity and peace. 


140 


IN MANY LANDS 


Now Solomon ben Jacob was an old man, so old 
that sometimes he fell a-dreaming stories in the day¬ 
time, just as a little child loves to dream. His own 
children were dead save one, who wandered in other 
lands, and it was his granddaughter, Rachel, a gentle 
girl of rare beauty, who kept his house and cheered 
his old age. As the shadows lengthened he glanced 
from time to time through the little window. Rachel 
had left him to walk with friends out into the green 
fields beyond the ghetto gates. But the gates closed 
at sunset and she had not returned. He might have 
felt some anxiety, but now he had reached that mile¬ 
stone for the aged which marks freedom from care; 
they feel that they have passed through the turmoils 
of life and nothing can disturb their peace until they 
pass into the greater peace which lies just before 
them. 

He smiled a little as he read again of his dream 
river, half closing his eyes as though he saw beyond 
the shadowy room a land flowing with milk and 
honey, a place far off from the daily grind and want 
of the ghetto life he had always known. He pic¬ 
tured himself walking with his beloved Rachel—not 
his granddaughter but his own wife, now dead so 
many years—beneath the trees whose branches were 
bowed with strange fruits. And so real was his 
picture he almost seemed to hear the roar of 
the river whose waves would sink into peace upon the 
Sabbath. 

At that very moment beyond the ghetto gates 
another river was rising, a river of hate and violence, 
a river of blood. A fanatical mob, always dry tim- 


THE RIVER OF DREAMS 


141 


ber ready to flare into flame, had fallen upon a group 
of Jewish youths who had ventured into the city, and 
had handled them with such brutality that two lay 
dead upon the ground. The madness spread, the 
lust for Jewish blood inflamed those who had looked 
upon the outrage—and another massacre was writ¬ 
ten in gory letters upon the dark pages of Israel’s 
history. 

Rachel’s young companions had dragged her into 
the synagogue, where, huddled in the women’s gal¬ 
lery, they looked fearfully down upon the men and 
boys who gathered behind the barred doors waiting 
for the struggle that would come when the maddened 
mob sought to tear them from their sanctuary. Once 
the girl moaned with white lips, “My grandfather!” 
and closed her eyes. She pictured him, old and help¬ 
less, trampled beneath the feet of those who rushed 
through the ghetto like hungry wolves, tearing all in 
their path. He had been a father to her for many 
years; she must not let him die alone. 

A look of determination in her gentle eyes, Rachel 
groped her way through the dark gallery to the stairs. 
But those who guarded the entrance of the syna¬ 
gogue would not let her pass. 

“It will be worse than death,” cried out an old 
neighbor, catching her arm. “You cannot aid him; 
and who knows but that we will be spared if their 
fury is spent before they reach us here. Believe that 
he himself speaks to you through his old friend, and 
save yourself if you can.” 

“My grandfather!” repeated the girl again, and 
tried to force her way to the door. 


142 


IN MANY LANDS 


And now a youth her own age restrained her. 
“Rachel, beloved,” he whispered, “stay here with 
the others.” 

A rosy gladness flushed her face; she looked up 
at him with luminous eyes. He had never told her 
of his love and now his confession robbed this place 
of death of its horrors. 

“How could I ask you to wed me,” he whispered, 
drawing her aside, “when the cursed laws against 
our people forbid me to marry before my older 
brother? But you must have known how I loved 
you. Rachel, beloved, if we must die, let us die here 
together.” 

In the dimness of the corner where they stood 
apart from the others she mutely raised her face to 
his and he placed a solemn kiss of betrothal upon her 
lips. Outside the sound of the howling, blood- 
inflamed mob grew closer, but the lovers did not 
tremble as they gazed into each other’s eyes. 

In a humble house not far off another heard the 
sullen roaring and was not afraid. An old man sit¬ 
ting near the window, his long beard sweeping the 
pages of his book, gazed with dreamy eyes out into 
the gathering dusk. He mused, as he sat, of the 
mystical river, the river of Sabbath dreams. There 
was peace beyond its waters and he was very tired 
and longed for rest. The dull roaring drew nearer 
and nearer. A strange light filled his weary eyes. 
Perhaps, he told himself, he was not dreaming after 
all. Perhaps the Master of Life, blessed be His 
Name, had brought his aged feet to the brink of the 
dream river; perhaps he already heard its waters 


THE RIVER OF DREAMS 


143 


bidding him welcome. The Sabbath was over, he 
told himself, and the waves were rising again, prais¬ 
ing God as they thundered beneath the evening sky. 
The noise grew louder and louder; he closed his 
eyes, his head nodding. In the sweet dizziness that 
swayed him as he sat with his book upon his knees 
he could almost imagine that the waves of the far¬ 
away river were covering him and drawing him to 
the farther shore. 

The mob crashed past, rending and slaying as it 
went. Several madmen flung themselves into the 
quiet room. A moment later they rushed forth, 
leaving a tired old man asleep upon the floor, his 
head resting upon the encrimsoned pages of the book 
that lay beside him. Peacefully, without doubt and 
without pain, the aged dreamer had passed from the 
peace of his dreaming into the Sabbath of a greater, 
surer peace. 









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